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WASHINGTON  IRVING 


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THE  SKETCH  BOOK 
OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT. 

BY 

WASHINGTON  IRVING 


**  I  have  no  wife  nor  children,  good  or  bad,  to  provide  for.  A  mere  spectator 
0f  other  men's  fortunes  aiuti  adventures,  and  how  they  play  their  parts,  which, 
Vethinks,  are  dlmvttf  fsntsented  unto  me,  as  from  a  common  theatre  or  scene." 

Burton. 


EDITED  WITH  INTRODUCTION  AND  NOTES 
BY  CHARLES  ADDISON  DAWSON,  PH.D., 
HEAD  OF  THE  DEPARTMENT  OF  ENGLISH, 
CENTRAL  HIGH   SCHOOL.   SYRACUSE,  N.  Y. 


NEW  YORK 
CHARLES  E.  MERRILL  COMPANY 

Digitized  by  LjOOQ  IC 


Aertfirs  £nglf0b  Zcxts 

This  series  of  books  includes  in  complete  editions 
those  masterpieces  of  English  Literature  that  are  best 
adapted  for  the  use  of  schools  and  colleges.  The  edi- 
tors of  the  several  voltunes  are  chosen  for  their  special 
qualifications  in  connection  with  the  texts  issued  imder 
their  individual  supervision,  but  familiarity  with  the 
practical  needs  of  the  classroom,  no  less  than  sound 
scholarship,  characterizes  the  editing  of  every  book  in 
the  series. 

In  connection  with  each  text,  a  critical  and  histori- 
cal introduction,  including  a  sketch  of  the  life  of  the 
author  and  his  relation  to  the  thought  of  his  time, 
critical  opinions  of  the  work  in  question  chosen  from 
the  great  body  of  English  criticism,  and,  where  pos- 
sible, a  portrait  of  the  author,  are  given.  Ample 
explanatory  notes  of  such  passages  in  the  text  as  call 
for  special  attention  are  supplied,  but  irrelevant 
annotation  and  explanations  of  the  obvious  are  rigidly 
excluded. 

CHARLES  E.  MERRILL  CO. 


COPYRICHT,    1911 
BY 

CHARLES  E.   MERRILL  CO. 
[Ill 


yGoogk 


PREFACE 

The  Sketch  Book  belongs  to  the  group  in  the  secondary  school 
English  list  set  for  reading  rather  than  for  minute  study.  In 
preparing  the  notes  for  this  edition,  therefore,  the  aim  has  been 
to  provide  such  supplementary  matter  as  will  help  the  reader 
to  a  better  appreciation  of  the  book,  instead  of  a  passing  know- 
ledge of  minute  details  that  are  not  essential  to  the  theme  in  hand. 
With  this  end  in  view,  several  passages  from  other  volumes 
of  Irving's  works  have  been  reprinted  and  numerous  refer- 
ences to  his  other  works  dted,  on  the  principle  that  the 
author  is  frequently  at  least  his  own  best  interpreter.  A  few 
suggestions  for  supplementary  reading  have  been  incorporated 
in  the  notes  also,  which  it  is  hoped  teachers  may  find  it  worth 
while  to  follow  up  and  even  extend. 

C  A.  D. 

Syracuse,  New  York,  August  i,  191 1. 


yGoogk 


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CONTENTS 

PAGB 

Introduction: 

The  Life  and  Work  of  Washington  Irving       .  7 

The  Study  of  The  Sketch  Book         .        .        .  13 

Irving's  Published  Works 18 

Bibliography 20 

The  Sketch  Book: 

Preface  to  the  Revised  Edition        .        .        .21 
The  Author's  Account  of  Himself    .        .        .31 

The  Voyage 35 

RoscoE 44 

The  Wife 54 

Rip  Van  Winkle 65 

English  Writers  on  America      ....  92 

Rural  Life  in  England 105 

The  Broken  Heart 115 

The  Art  of  Book-Making 123 

A  Royal  Poet 133 

The  Country  Church  .        .        .        .        .153 

The  Widow  and  Her  Son 161 

A  Sunday  in  London 172 

S 


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6  CONTENTS 

PAGS 

The  Boar's  Hbad  Tavern,  Eastchbap        .        .175 
The  Mutability  of  Literature  .        .        .        .192 

Rural  Funerals 208 

The  Inn  Kitchen         .        .        .        .        .        .  225 

The  Spectre  Bridegroom 228 

Westminster  Abbey     .        .        .        .        .        .  250 

Christmas 266 

The  Stage  Coach 274 

Christmas  Eve 284 

Christmas  Day 300 

The  Christmas  Dinner 319 

London  Antiques 340 

Little  Britain 349 

Stratford-on-Avon 371 

Traits  of  Indian  Character       ....  398 

Philip  of  Pokanoket 414 

John  Bull 438 

The  Pride  of  the  Village          ....  454 

The  Angler 467 

The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow          .        .        .  480 

L'Envoy 527 

Appendix 531 

Notes 537 

Questions 564 


yGoogk 


INTRODUCTION 

THE  LIFE  AND  V/ORK  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING 

So  completely  are  the  writings  and  the  life  of  Washington 
Irving  identified  that  to  appreciate  the  one  without  the  other  is 
impossible.  No  better  impression  of  the  spirit  of  his  youth  is 
to  be  had  than  that  given  as  introductory  to  The  Sketch  Book  in 
The  Author's  Account  of  Himself,  and  his  essays  and  tales  are 
constantly  to  be  illustrated  by  reference  to  his  letters  and  travels. 
In  the  boy  who  was  to  be  pre-eminently  the  man  of  letters  a  pas- 
sion for  reading  developed  early;  at  ten  he  was  reading  a  trans- 
lation of  Orlando  Furioso  and  imitating  fantastic  adventures  of 
chivalry  in  his  father's  back  yard.  These  deeds  of  prowess 
were  mingled  with  various  hare-brained  escapades  along  the  roofs 
and  gutters  of  the  neighboring  houses.  A  little  later  Robinson 
Crusoe  and  Sinhad  the  Sailor  came  to  his  hands,  and  the  influence 
of  these  books  in  breeding  a  desire  to  travel  was  reenforced  by  a 
collection  of  voyages  and  travels  under  the  title,  The  World 
Displayed.  The  sea  began  to  exert  upon  the  boy  a  lure  such  as 
it  had  held  for  his  father  before  him.  The  father's  sailor  ex- 
perience was  not  to  be  repeated,  but  the  lad's  dreams  of  travel 
were  to  be  realized  in  full  measure. 

His  first  modest  voyaging  was  occasioned  by  a  convalescence 
from  fever  in  1798,  when  he  first  woke  the  echoes  of  Sleepy 
Hollow  with  his  gun.  Two  years  later  he  extended  his  travel 
by  a  trip  up  the  Hudson,  and  his  account  of  this  journey  shows 
that  tiie  beautiful  river  had  already  cast  upon  him  the  charm  it 
held  ever  after.  A  second  visit  to  the  neighborhood  of  Albany, 
when  he  was  falling  into  the  ill  health  that  brought  about  Ids 
first  trip  to  Europe,  followed  in  1802,  and  the  next  year  found 
him  on  an  expedition  with  a  party  of  friends  to  the  site  of 


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8  INTRODUCTION 

Ogdensbui:g  on  the  St.  Lawrence  and  thence  to  Montreal  and 
Quebec.  At  Montreal  he  first  fell  in  with  the  fur  traders  of  the 
Northwest,  the  romance  of  whose  life  he  was  afterwards  to 
weave  into  his  account  of  the  settlement  of  Astoria  on  the  Pa- 
cific Coast.  The  enthusiasm  kindled  in  Irving  by  this  early 
acquaintance  with  the  lakes  and  forests  and  rivers  of  his  own 
country  he  never  lost.  In  1824  he  writes  to  his  friend  Brevoort 
from  Paris:  **The  bay,  the  rivers  and  their  wild  and  woody 
shores,  the  haunts  of  my  boyhood,  both  on  land  and  water, 
absolutely  have  a  witchery  over  my  mind.  I  thank  God  for  my 
having  been  bom  in  so  beautiful  a  place  among  such  beautiful 
scenery;  I  am  convinced  that  I  owe  a  vast  deal  of  what  is  good 
and  pleasant  in  my  nature  to  the  circtunstance.  ** 

In  the  hope,  shared  by  his  brothers,  that  his  health  would  be 
benefited  by  the  voyage,  he  left  New  York  in  May,  1804,  and 
landed  in  Bordeaux  in  June,  just  after  Napoleon  had  been  de- 
clared Emperor.  Because  of  the  state  of  war  then  existing,  his 
trip  through  Southern  France  was  hindered  by  police  spies,  who 
suspected  him  of  being  an  Englishman.  Later,  on  the  voyage 
from  Genoa  to  Sicily,  an  encounter  with  pirates  served  to  en- 
hance the  adventurous  character  of  his  journey  and  to  furnish 
material  for  most  interesting  home  letters.  During  the  next 
two  years  he  traveled  through  Italy,  France,  and  Belgium,  with 
a  residence  of  some  months  in  Paris  and  brief  visits  to  London 
and  Oxford.  Besides  the  hoped-for  betterment  in  health,  the 
fruit  of  this  journey  was  a  closer  and  more  appreciative  acquain- 
tance with  art  and  music,  an  enthusiasm  for  the  opera,  which 
was  always  afterward  characteristic  of  him,  and  the  beginning  of 
that  wide  circle  of  acquaintance  and  friendship  with  notable  peo- 
ple which  formed  so  large  a  part  of  his  life.  In  Rome  he  met  the 
American  artist,  Washington  AUston,  and  between  the  two  a 
warm  friendship  sprang  up,  so  that  Irving  himself  was  on  the 
point  of  trjring  painting  as  a  life  work.  After  his  return  to 
America  in  1806  he  enlarged  the  range  of  his  travel  and  ac- 
quaintance by  visits  to  Philadelphia  and  Washington  and  trips 
to  Montreal.      He  was  present  in  a  semi-l^al  capacity  at  the 


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LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  IRVING  9 

trial  of  Aaron  Burr  in  Richmond  Virginia.  This  was  wide  trav- 
eling for  that  day  and  of  no  small  advantage  to  the  man  who 
was  to  represent  in  England,  for  nearly  twenty  years,  the  best  of 
America. 

The  year  1809  brought  to  Irving  the  great  sorrow  of  his  life 
and  his  first  notable  literary  success.  In  the  spring  of  this  year 
occurred  the  death  of  Matilda  HoflFman,  the  daughter  of  Irving's 
friend,  Judge  Hoffman,  in  whose  office  he  had  studied  law.  To 
this  loss  probably  is  traceable  much  of  a  certain  melancholy  ten- 
derness that  runs  through  his  work.  It  was  characteristic  of  the 
man,  however,  that  during  the  following  two  months  of  retire- 
ment at  Kinderhook  he  should  occupy  himself  with  the  final 
preparation  of  the  History  of  New  York  for  the  press.  This  was 
his  first  book,  his  previous  writing  having  been  <x)nfined  to  a  few 
papers  contributed  to  The  Morning  Chronicle  in  the  autumn  of 
1802  under  the  pen  name  of  Jonathan  Oldstyle  and  parts  of  the 
humorous  periodical,  Salmagundi^  written  during  1807.  To 
Mr.  Brevoort,  who  had  presented  to  him  a  copy  of  the  History, 
Walter  Scott  in  18 13  wrote  enthusiastically  of  "the  most  excel- 
lently jocose  history  of  New  York, "  and  expressed  a  desire  to 
see  the  next  of  Mr.  Irving's  work.  In  the  years  that  elapsed 
before  the  appearance  of  that  **next**  work  the  two  became 
personal  friends,  and  Scott's  connection  with  The  Sketch  Book 
is  told  in  Irving's  Preface  to  the  Revised  Edition. 

During  the  five  years  following  the  publication  of  the  History 
Irving's  only  important  literary  work  was  the  editing  of  Thh 
Analectic  Magazine^  from  which  the  papers  "  Philip  of  Pokanoket " 
and  "Indian  Traits"  were  afterward  taken  for  The  Sketch  Book. 
Frequent  missions  to  Washington  for  the  firm  of  Irvings,  in 
which  he  now  had  an  interest,  served  to  extend  his  acquaintance. 
In  1 8 14  his  always  ardent  patriotism  found  vent  in  a  transient 
attachment  to  the  military  staff  of  the  Governor  of  New  York, 
under  which  commission  he  made  a  hasty  trip  to  Sacketts  Har- 
bor on  Lake  Ontario  to  inspect  the  war  preparations  there. 

Looking  forward  again  with  pleasure  to  a  period  of  leisurely 
travel  in  Europe,  Irving  embarked  for  Liverpool  in  May,  18 15, 

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lo  INTRODUCTION 

and  arrived,  as  he  wrote,  "just  ls  the  coaches  were  coming  in 
decked  with  laurel  and  dashing  proudly  through  the  streets 
with  the  tidings  of  the  Battle  of  Waterloo."  But,  like  many 
others,  during  the  following  period  of  business  depression,  the 
firm  of  Irvings,  of  whose  business  Peter  Irving  was  in  charge  in 
Liverpool,  was  in  difficulties,  and  Washington  devoted  most  of 
his  time  during  the  next  three  years  to  a  vain  attempt  to  ward 
off  the  failure  which  came  in  1818.  Finally,  in  August  of  this 
.year,  with  some  material  which  he  had  gathered  during  occa- 
sional holidajrs  snatched  for  visits  to  London,  Stratford,  Ab- 
botsford,  and  other  places  of  interest,  he  went  to  London  to  try 
the  literary  career  he  had  hitherto  shimned.  He  declined" 
several  government  appointments,  and  on  March  3,  1819, 
sent  to  his  brother  Ebenezer  in  New  York  the  first  part  of  The 
Sketch  Book  of  Geoffrey  Crayon,  Gent, 

It  was  not  without  a  good  deal  of  hesitation  that  Irving 
launched  himself  on  this  new  venture,  but  the  work  was  a  success 
from  the  first,  and  the  author  was  assured  of  a  place  among  the 
first  writers,  not  only  of  his  own  day  but  of  all  English  literature. 
Bracebridge  Hall  and  Tales  of  a  Traveller ,  both  modeled  somewhat 
upon  the  form  of  The  Sketch  Book,  followed  after  a  period  of 
residence  on  the  Continent.  He  now  began  to  look  for  wider 
fields  of  work.  A  suggestion  that  he  should  translate  a  new 
Spanish  work  on  Columbus  prompted  the  visit  to  Spain  which 
extended  itself  to  a  three  years'  residence  and  proved  so  rich  a 
source  of  material.  During  this  period  he  wrote  his  Life  of 
Columbus  and  Conquest  of  Granada  and  gathered  material  for 
his  other  Spanish  papers.  After  two  years  as  Secretary  of  Lega- 
tion at  London,  Irving  returned  to  America  in  1832,  having 
received  as  crowning  honors  the  degree  of  D.C.L.  from  Oxford 
University  and  one  of  the  medals  conferred  by  the  Royal  Soci- 
ety of  Literature  in  1830,  the  other  medal  having  been  given  to 
the  historian  Hallam. 

At  the  request  of  John  Jacob  Astor  he  now  undertook  the  writ- 
ing of  the  accoimt  of  Astoria,  a  work  which  was  received  in 
England  with  the  greatest  enthusiasm.    But  this,  as  well  as 


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LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  IRVING  ii 

aei'eral  other  American  subjects  which  were  the  fruit  of  his 
travel  in  the  South  and  West*  he  looked  upon  as  subordinate 
to  the  great  work  he  had  long  had  in  mind,  a  Life  of  Washington, 
This  had  been  suggested  to  him  as  early  as  1825,  and  now  that 
he  seemed  settled  in  America  and  had  surrendered  the  subject 
of  the  Conquest  of  Mexico  to  Prescott,  the  time  seemed  ripe 
for  the  task;  but  many  demands  of  the  public  upon  his  time  and 
the  necessity  for  other  literary  work  interfered  with  the  plan. 
He  hoped  for  leisure  in  Spain  after  accepting  the  post  of  Minister 
to  that  country  in  1842,  but  in  this  hope  too  he  was  disappointed, 
and  it  was  not  until  1859,  within  a  year  of  his  death,  that  the 
last  volume  of  this,  his  longest  and  final  work  was  published. 

Meanwhile,  his  "cottage,"  Wolfert's  Roost,  or  Sunnyside 
as  it  was  later  styled,  near  the  Sleepy  Hollow  that  he  had  made 
famous,  had  become  a  place  of  pilgrimage  as  the  residence  of 
this  most  friendly  and  lovable  man  of  letters.  To  a  generously 
warm  family  sympathy  there  was  added  in  him,  in  a  notable 
degree,  the  capacity  for  friendship  with  people  of  all  ranks. 
His  books  and  his  own  personal  charm  gained  for  him  an  acquain- 
tance probably  as  wide  as  that  of  any  man  of  his  day.  In 
1853  he  wrote  to  his  niece,  Mrs.  Storrow,  at  Paris:  "Louis 
Napoleon  and  Eugenie  Monti  jo.  Emperor  and  Empress  of  France! 
— one  of  whom  I  had  a  guest  at  my  cottage  on  the  Hudson; 
the  other,  whom,  when  a  child,  I  have  had  on  my  knee  at  Gra- 
nada!" An  English  lady  who  enjoyed  an  intimate  acquaintance 
with  Irving  during  his  residence  at  Dresden  in  1822-23  wrote  of 
him  in  i860:  "He  was  thoroughly  a  gentleman,  not  merely 
externally  in  manners  and  look  but  to  the  innermost  fibres  and 
core  of  his  heart.  Sweet-tempered,  gentle,  fastidious,  sensitive, 
and  gifted  with  the  warmest  afi[ections,  the  most  delightful  and 
invariably  interesting  companion,  gay  and  full  of  humor,  even  in 
spite  of  occasional  fits  of  melancholy,  which  he  was  however 
addom  subject  to  when  with  those  he  liked — a  gift  of  conversa- 
tion that  flowed  .like  a  full  river  in  sunshine,  bright,  easy,  and 
abundant. " 

The  following  letter  from  Dickens,  written  in  May,  1841,  just 


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12  INTRODUCTION 

before  his  first  visit  to  America  in  answer  to  one  from  Irving 
telling  of  his  enjoyment  of  the  story  of  Little  Nell,  is  interesting 
here. 

"My  DEAR  Sir: 

"There  is  no  man  in  the  world  who  could  have  given  me  the 
heartfelt  pleasure  you  have,  by  your  kind  note  of  the  13th  of  last 
month.  There  is  no  living  writer,  and  there  are  very  few  among 
'  the  dead,  whose  approbation  I  should  feel  so  proud  to  earn. 
And  with  everything  you  have  written  upon  my  shelves,  and  in 
my  thoughts,  and  in  my  heart  of  hearts,  I  may  honestly  and 
truly  say  so.  .  .  .  I  wish  I  could  find  in  your  welcome  letter 
some  hint  of  an  intention  to  visit  England.  ...  I  should  love 
to  go  with  you — as  I  have  gone,  God  knows  how  often — ^into 
Little  Britain,  and  Eastcheap,  and  Green  Arbor  Court,  and 
Westminster  Abbey.  I  shotdd  like  to  travel  with  you,  outside 
the  last  of  the  coaches,  down  to  Bracebridge  Hall  ...  to  com- 
pare notes  .  .  .  about  Robert  Preston,  and  the  tallow  chand- 
ler's window,  whose  sitting-room  is  second  nature  to  me;  and 
about  all  those  deUghtful  places  and  people  that  I  used  tp  walk 
about  and  dream  of  in  the  day-time,  when  a  very  small  and  not 
over-particularly-well-taken-care-of  boy.  .  .  .  Diedrich  Knicker- 
bocker I  have  worn  to  death  in  my  pocket,  and  yet  I  should 
show  you  his  mutilated  carcass  with  a  joy  past  all  expression.  .  .  . 

"Always  your  faithful  friend, 
"Charles  Dickens." 

Irving  was  not  a  man  with  a  great  message  for  the  world, 
and  yet  he  had  always  a  serious  purpose  in  his  humor.  He  was  a 
man  who  simply  recast  the  world  he  saw  and  made  a  part  of  in 
the  forms  of  his  own  beautiful,  generous,  good  nature.  He  was 
an  ardent  patriot,  and  both  as  private  citizen  and  official  did, 
in  an  unassuming  way,  good  service  for  his  country  at  a  time 
when  an  American  gentleman  abroad  had  it  in  his  power  to  do 
quite  otherwise.  He  was  bom  in  New  York  April  3,  1783,  and 
his  life  had  spanned  the  long  period  of  the  beginnings  of  American 
literature  when  he  died,  full  of  years  and  honors,  November  28, 


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THE  STUDY  OF  THE  SKETCH  BOOK     13 

1859,  and  was  buried  by  the  side  of  his  mother  in  the  Sleepy- 
Hollow  cemetery. 

THE  STUDY  OF  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

Since  Irving  himself  uses  the  comparison  and  we  know  that  at 
the  time  of  writing  The  Sketch  Book  his  most  intimate  friend* 
were  the  artists,  Allston,  Leslie,  and  Newton,  we  shall  not  go  far 
wrong  if  in  reading  the  book  we  view  its  contents  much  as  one 
would  the  small  sketches  of  a  great  artist.  Such  sketches  are 
always  interesting,  not  only  in  themselves  but  also  for  their  sug- 
gestion of  the  artist's  larger  canvases  and  for  the  light  they  shed 
upon  his  methods  of  work.  In  the  first  place,  while  reading  Th^ 
Sketch  Book  the  student  must  be  careful  to  get  with  some  cer- 
tainty the  various  viewpoints  of  the  author.  Failing  this,  he 
loses  best  half  of  the  affair;  he  will  fail  to  catch  the  suggestion 
of  a  larger  canvas,  which  each  sketch  carries  in  itself;  he  will  fail 
to  appreciate  the  varied  phases  of  life  which  the  book  presents; 
and  he  will  miss  also  the  common  quality  that  marks  all  the 
sketches — the  intimate,  personal,  sympathetic  humor  which  is 
precisely  the  peculiar  mark  of  the  man,  Washington  Irving. 

In  point  of  subject-matter  and  purpose — ^for  Irving's  work 
was  never  purposeless — the  sketches  fall  into  several  classes,  or 
rather  may  be  grouped  in  several  different  ways.  For  most  of 
them  some  such  classification  is  indicated  in  the  Notes.  In 
general,  when  making  up  the  "parts"  for  publication  in  America, 
Irving  seems  to  have  had  in  mind  three  groups:  the  humorous, 
such  as  "Rip  Van  Winkle";  the  pathetic,  like  "The  Wife,"  or 
"The  Brdcen  Heart";  and  the  curious  or  antique,  of  which  the 
Christmas  papers  may  serve  as  examples.  But  clearly  this  must 
leave  quite  out  of  view  such  literary  pilgrimages  as  "Stratford- 
on-Avon,"  or  "A  Royal  Poet,"  although  in  both,  as  well  as  in 
"Westminster  Abbey,"  which  stands  quite  alone,  the  antiquary 
is  visible.  Others,  like  "  Rural  Life, "  are  simply  reflections  upon 
the  features  of  English  life  that  interested  the  author. 

Such  a  paper  as  "Roscoe"  is  to  be  read  in  the  Ught  of  th^ 

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14  INTRODUCTION 

writer's  interest  in  the  work  of  a  public-spirited  citizen,  sudh 
work  as  might  be  done  in  his  own  home  city.  "English  Writers 
on  America, "  again,  is  written  in  the  conciliatory  spirit  of  a  man 
who,  with  wide  acquaintance  in  both  countries,  well  knew  the 
ease  with  which  friction  and  misunderstanding  were  engendered 
between  England  and  America,  and  who  knew  also  a  way  to  avoid 
the  difficulty.  In  "The  MutabiHty  of  Literature"  and  "The. 
Art  of  Book-making"  he  takes  two  very  old  themes  of  satire  and 
cynical  reflection  and  treats  them  in  a  humorous  and  gently 
satirical  vein  that  is  quite  past  classifying.  "Little  Britain" 
and  "John  Bull "  are  specimens  of  caricature  at  its  best,  a  quality 
which  "The  Country  Church"  shares  with  them  in  some  d^ree. 
They  should  be  read  with  the  pending  social  and  political  changes 
in  the  England  of  that  day  cleariy  in  mind. 

Irving  did  larger  pieces  of  work  in  his  lives  of  Washington  and 
Columbus  and  the  shorter  Life  of  Goldsmith,  But  he  always 
continued  to  make  sketches,  and  The  Sketch  Book  remains,  taken 
altogether,  a  characteristic  piece  of  work,  suggesting  widely 
varied  sources  of  material  and  possibilities  of  larger  work.  This 
suggestiveness  of  other  work,  of  more  sketches,  of  wide  fields  of 
reading  and  observation,  is  for  the  student  one  of  the  most 
valuable  qualities  of  The  Sketch  Book,  Few  volumes  are  richer 
in  such  hints.  The  reader  may  follow  the  author  to  the  wide 
range  of  his  literary  sources,  and  he  may  go  into  the  later  books  in 
which  the  plots  that  Irving  merely  outlines  are  more  fully  devel- 
oped, where  in  the  pictures  of  life  that  he  merely  sketched  the 
colors  have  been  laid  on.  Besides,  a  twofold  value  is  to  be  found 
in  acquaintance  with  the  author's  method  of  work.  First  the 
student  comes  to  know  the  personal  quality  and  habits  of  the 
man  who  is  so  skilful  a  guide  in  the  borderland  between  romance 
and  fact;  and  in  the  second  place  he  may  form  by  imitation  of 
the  master  such  habits  of  open-mindedness  and  prompt  readiness 
to  take  suggestions  from  many  sources  as  will  instire  him  ample 
material  for  his  own  composition. 

Information  as  to  sources  and  occasions  of  the  various  papers 
will  be  found  in  the  Notes.    In  general  Irving's  method  was  to 

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THE  STUDY  OF  THE  SKETCH  BOOK    15 

gather  his  material  from  conversations,  from  his  own  observations 
of  life,  or  from  odd  comers  of  libraries,  and  then  to  allow  his 
fancy  to  play  over  it  for  a  while  at  will.  Out  of  this  sort  of  pre- 
paration came  most  of  his  sketches.  Sometimes  a  chance  remark 
or  passing  scene  would  set  his  pen  going,  and  when  in  the  mood 
he  wrote  rapidly,  with  an  enjoyment  of  his  work  like  that  which 
characterized  Dickens.  More  frequently  he  wrote  slowly,  giv- 
ing much  time  to  correction,  and  rejecting  much.  Thomas 
Moore,  the  poet,  after  hearing  Irving  read  from  the  manuscript 
of  the  Tales  of  a  Traveller  "A  Literary  Dinner,"  wrote;  "He  has 
given  the  description  of  the  booksellers'  dinner  so  exactly  like 
-what  I  told  him  of  one  of  the  Longmans  (the  carving  partner, 
the  partner  to  laugh  at  the  popular  author's  jokes,  the  twelve- 
edition  writers  treated  with  claret,  etc.),  that  I  very  much  fear 
my  friends  in  Paternoster  Row  will  know  themselves  in  the 
picture. " 

His  friend  Leslie  gives  an  interesting  accoimt  of  the  writing 
of  "The  Stout  Gentleman,"  accounted  the  best  sketch  in  Brac^ 
bridge  Hall.  The  two  had  spent  a  rainy  Sunday  in  the  inn  at 
Oxford.  "That  next  morning,  as  we  mounted  the  coach,  I  said 
something  about  a  stout  gentleman  who  had  come  from  London 
with  us  the  day  before,  and  Irving  remarked  that  'The  Stout 
Gentleman'  would  not  be  a  bad  title  for  a  tale;  as  soon  as  the 
coach  stopped,  he  began  writing  with  his  pencil,  and  went  on  at 
every  like  opportunity.  We  visited  Stratford-on-Avon,  strolled 
about  Charlecot  Park  and  other  places  in  the  neighborhood,  and 
while  I  was  sketching,  Irving,  mounted  on  a  stile  or  seated  on  a 
stone,  was  busily  engaged  with  *The  Stout  Gentleman.*  He 
wrote  with  the  greatest  rapidity,  often  laughing  to  himself,  and 
from  time  to  time  reading  the  manuscript  to  me. " 

Irving  himself  was  pretty  clear  as  to  the  precise  and  peculiar 
character  of  his  work.  He  was  frequently  urged  to  write  a 
novel,  but  he  chose  deliberately  to  hold  to  the  sort  of  work  he  had 
already  done  well.  "For  my  part,"  he  wrote  to  a  friend  in 
1824,  "I  consider  a  story  merely  as  a  frame  upon  which  to  stretch 
my  materials.    It  is  the  play  of  thought  and  sentiment  and  lan- 


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I6  INTRODUCTION 

guage;  the  weaving  in  of  characters  lightly  yet  expressively 
delineated;  the  familiar  and  faithftil  exhibition  of  scenes  in  com- 
mon life;  and  the  half -concealed  vein  of  humor  that  is  often  play- 
ing through  the  whole — ^these  are  among  what  I  aim  at.  .  .  . 
I  have  preferred  adopting  the  mode  of  sketches  and  short  tales 
rather  than  long  works,  because  I  choose  to  take  a  line  of  writing- 
peculiar  to  myself,  rather  than  fall  into  the  manner  or  school  of 
any  other  writer."  Thomas  Moore,  writing  in  March,  182 1, 
says:  "Irving  .  .  .  has  followed  up  an  idea  which  I  suggested, 
and  taken  the  characters  in  his  *  Christmas  Essay,'  Master  Simon, 
etc.,  etc.,  for  the  purpose  of  making  a  slight  thread  of  a  story  on. 
which  to  string  his  remarks  and  sketches  of  human  manners  and 
feelings. " 

These  comments  are  really  the  key  to  the  structure  of  Irving's 
sketches.  They  explain  also  why  he  never  developed  the  short 
story  with  its  compactness  and  climax.  He  simply  was  not 
interested  in  it.  The  papers  of  The  Sketch  Book,  then,  vary  in 
technical  form  between  the  narrative  essay  and  the  romantic 
tale,  the  distinction  between  the  two  lying  in  the  greater  prom- 
inence of  reflection  in  the  former  and  of  narrative  interest  in 
the  latter.  Of  the  narrative  essay  "Westminster  Abbey"  may 
be  taken  as  representative;  of  the  romantic  tale  "The  Spectre 
Bridegroom"  with  its  loose  story  structure  is  typical.  The 
narrative  essay,  in  which  the  writer  uses  a  thread  of  narrative 
to  carry  his  reflections,  had  been  skilfully  developed  by  Addison, 
Steele,  and  Goldsmith,  who  had  served  Irving  as  models  of  style; 
the  tale,  of  course,  is  as  old  as  "once  upon  a  time."  Irving's 
sympathetic  humor  enabled  him  to  throw  into  most  of  his  sketches 
the  qualities  of  both  these  forms. 

The  next  problem  therefore,  for  the  student,  that  of  observing 
the  literary  form  of  the  sketches,  is  simple.  Allowing  for  the 
inimitable  element  of  Irving's  genius,  the  problem  is  to  discover 
the  method  of  unifying  an  essay  by  means  of  a  consistent  setting 
of  narrative  or  description. 

This  direction  leads  naturally  to  some  study  of  Irving's  diction, 
which  for  aptness,  grace,  and  appropriateness  has  yet  to  be 


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THE  STUDY  OF  THE  SKETCH  BOOK     17 

surpassed.  In  this  matter,  the  teacher  needs  often  to  guard 
against  la3ring  too  much  emphasis  upon  the  unusual  word. 
Irving  uses  some  antique  forms  of  word  and  phrase  with  a 
definite  purpose,  as  he  uses  also  some  provincial  and  colloquial 
turns  of  expression;  but  these  are  the  exception.  His  habitual, 
ordinary  diction  is  the  important  thing.  The  best  method  for 
this  study  is  that  based  upon  oral  reading.  As  Irving's  descrip- 
tions are  drawn  with  the  eye  of  an  artist,  so  his  sentences  and 
words  are  chosen  and  tested  by  the  ear  of  a  lover  of  music 
None  of  the  books  usually  read  in  high  school  English  classes 
is  better  adapted  than  The  Sketch  Book  for  oral  reading  to  de- 
velop an  appreciation  of  English  vowels  and  consonants  and 
that  skill  in  forming  them  which  is  often  so  sadly  wanting  in  our 
speech. 


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mVING'S  PUBLISHED  WORKS 

Jonathan  Oldstyle  Papers^  contributed  to  The  Morning  Chronicle^ 
1802.    Republished  without  authority,  1823,  in  New  York. 

Salmagundi  (name  meaning  a  dish  of  spiced,  chopped  meat, 
etc. ;  hence  a  Miscellany).  A  series  of  papers  modeled  somewhat 
after  the  Spectator  papers  of  Addison.  Twenty  ntmibers  pub- 
lished during  1807-08.  Washington  Irving,  his  brother  William 
Irving,  and  James  K.  Paulding  worked  together  on  this>  writing 
under  the  pen  names  of  Lancelot  Langstaff,  Anthony  Evergreen, 
William  Wizard,  Pindar  Cockloft  (poet),  and  Mustapha  Rub-a- 
dub  Keli  Khan,  the  aliases  being  used  now  by  one,  now  by  another 
of  the  three  writers. 

Contributions  to  The  Andectic  Magazine,  1813-1814.  "Philip 
of  Pokanoket"  and  "Indian  Traits"  were  written  for  this 
review. 

History  of  New  York,  1809,  published  as  "A  Posthumous  work 
of  Diedrich  Knickerbocker. " 

The  Sketch  Book,  published  in  seven  parts  in  America. 
Part  I.    May,  1819: 

Author's  Account  of  Himself. 

The  Voyage. 

Roscoe. 

The  Wife. 

Rip  Van  Winkle. 
Part  2.    July,  18 19: 

English  Writers  on  America. 

Rural  Life  in  England. 

The  Broken  Heart. 

The  Art  of  Book-making. 
Part  3.    September,  1819: 

A  Royal  Poet. 

IS 


yGoogk 


IRVINGS  PUBLISHED  WORKS  19 

The  Country  Church. 
The  Widow  and  Her  Son. 
The  Boar's  Head. 
Part  4.    November,  18 19: 

The  Mutability  of  Literature. 
The  Spectre  Bridegroom. 
Rural  Fimerals. 
Part  5.    December,  18 19: 

The  Christmas  Papers. 
Part  6.    March,  1820: 

The  Pride  of  the  Village. 
The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow. 
John  Bull. 
Part  7.    September,  1820: 
Westminster  Abbey . 
Stratford. 
Little  Britain. 
The  Angler. 
Parts  1-4  were  published  in  England  as  vol.  i.  in  February^ 
1820,  parts  5-7,  in  July,  1820,  with  "Philip  of  Pokanoket"  and 
•'Indian  Traits." 
BracebHdge  Hall,  1822. 
Tales  of  a  Traveller,  1824. 

The  Life  and  Voyages  of  Columbus,  1828.   Abridged  in  America, 
1829,  in  England,  1830. 
A  Chronicle  of  the  Conquest  of  Granada,  1829. 
The  Voyages  of  the  Companions  of  Columbus,  1830-31. 
The  Alhambra,  in  England  and  America,  and  in  France  in 
translation  in  two  voltunes,  1832. 
The  Crayon  Miscellany,  1835. 

Part  I.    A  Tour  on  the  Prairies. 
Part  2.    Abbotsford  and  Newstead  Abbey. 
Part  3.    Legends  of  the  Conquest  of  Spain. 
Astoria,  1836. 

Adventures  of  Captain  Bonneville,  1837. 
Sketch  of  the  Life  of  Goldsmith,  in  Harper's  Family  Library,  1839. 


yGoogk 


CO  INTRODUCTION 

Contributions  to  The  Knickerbocker  Magazine,  1 839-1840,  re- 
published as  Wolferfs  Roost,  1855. 
Revision  of  Works,  1848-9. 

Life  of  Goldsmith,  rewritten  and  published  separately,  1849. 
Mahomet  and  His  Successors,  1849-50. 
Wolferfs  Roost,  1855. 
Life  of  Washington,  1855-59. 

BIBLIOGRAPHY 

The  following  list  is  not  intended  to  be  exhaustive,  but  simply 
to  give  the  books  and  articles  that  would  be  available  for  most 
schools,  in  libraries  of  moderate  size. 

Life  and  Letters  of^  Washington  Irving,  by  Pierre  M.  Irving, 
3  volumes,  1869.     The  standard,  complete  authority. 

Washington  Irving t  Charles  Dudley  Warner,  in  American  Men 
of  Letters  Series.  This  contains  good  chapters  on  his  works, 
with  summaries. 

A  Literary  History  of  America,  book  iv.,  chapter  iii.,  by  Barrett 
Wendell,    An  excellent  chapter  of  discriminating  criticism. 

American  Short  Stories,  by  C.  S.  Baldwin.  The  introduction 
discusses  Irving's  relation  to  the  development  of  the  short  story. 

*'Nil  Nisi  Bonum,"  in  Roundabout  Papers,  Thackeray,  contains 
a  very  interesting  estimate  of  the  man. 

The  Work  of  Washington  Irving,  a  short  essay,  by  C  D.  Warner, 

1893. 

Irving,  in  Leading  American  Essayists,  by  W.  M.  Pa3nie, 
1 9 1  o.  An  excellent  brief  account  of  his  life  and  place  in  American 
literature. 

The  Critic  for  March  31,  1883,  The  Irving  Centenary  Edition, 
contained  many  useful  articles  on  Irving,  with  a  rather  full 
bibliography. 


yGoogk 


PREFACE  TO  THE  REVISED  EDITION 

The  following  papers,  with  two  exceptions,  were 
written  in  England,  and  formed  but  part  of  an  in- 
tended series,  for  which  I  had  made  notes  and  memo- 
randums. Before  I  cotild  mature  a  plan,  however, 
circumstances  compelled  me  to  send  them  piecemeal 
to  the  United  States,  where  they  were  published 
from  time  to  time  in  portions  or  numbers.  It  was  not 
my  intention  to  publish  them  in  England,  being  con- 
scious that  much  of  their  contents  would  be  interesting 
only  to  American  readers,  and,  in  truth,  being  deterred 
by  the  severity  with  which  American  productions 
had  been  treated  by  the  British  press. 

By  the  time  the  contents  of  the  first  volume  had  ap- 
peared in  this  occasional  manner,  they  began  to  find 
their  way  across  the  Atlantic,  and  to  be  inserted,  with 
many  kind  encomiums,  in  the  London  Literary  Gazette. 
It  was  said,  also,  that  a  London  bookseller  intended  to 
publish  them  in  a  collective  form.  I  determined, 
therefore,  to  bring  them  forward  myself,  that  they 
might  at  least  have  the  benefit  of  my  superintendence 
and  revision.  I  accordingly  took  the  printed  numbers, 
which  I  had  received  from  the  United  States,  to  Mr. 
John  Murray,  the  eminent  publisher,  from  whom  I 
had  already  received  friendly  attentions,  and  left 
them  with  him  for  examination,  informing  him  that 

21 

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03  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

shotdd  he  be  inclined  to  bring  them  before  the  public, 
I  had  materials  enough  on  hand  for  a  second  volume. 
Several  days  having  elapsed  without  any  communica- 
tion from  Mr.  Murray,  I  addressed  a  note  to  him, 
in  which  I  construed  his  silence  into  a  tacit  rejection 
of  my  work,  and  begged  that  the  numbers  I  had  left 
with  him  might  be  returned  to  me.  The  following 
was  his  reply: 

My  dear  Sir, — 

I  entreat  you  to  believe  that  I  feel  truly  obliged  by  your  kind 
intentions  towards  me,  and  that  I  entertain  the  most  unfeigned 
respect  for  your  most  tasteful  talents.  My  house  is  completely 
filled  with  work-people  at  this  time,  and  I  have  only  an  oflfice  to 
transact  business  in;  and  yesterday  I  was  wholly  occupied,  or  I 
should  have  done  myself  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you. 

If  it  would  not  suit  me  to  engage  in  the  publication  of  your 
present  work,  it  is  only  because  I  do  not  see  that  scope  in  the 
nature  of  it  which  would  enable  me  to  make  those  satisfactory 
accounts  between  us,  without  which  I  really  feel  no  satisfaction  in 
engaging — ^but  I  will  do  all  I  can  to  promote  their  circulation, 
and  shall  be  most  ready  to  attend  to  any  future  plan  of  yours. 
With  much  regard,  I  remain,  dear  sir, 

Your  faithful  servant, 

John  Murray. 

This  was  disheartening,  and  might  have  deterred 
me  from  any  further  prosecution  of  the  matter,  had 
the  question  of  republication  in  Great  Britain  rested 
entirely  with  me;  but  I  apprehended  the  appearance 
of  a  spurious  edition.  I  now  thought  of  Mr.  Archi- 
bald Constable  as  publisher,  having  been  treated  by 
him  with  much  hospitality  during  a  visit  to  Edin- 

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PREFACE  TO  THE  REVISED  EDITION  23 

btirgh;  but  first  I  determined  to  submit  my  work  to 
Sir  Walter  (then  Mr.)  Scott,  being  encouraged  to  do  so 
by  the  cordial  reception  I  had  experienced  from  him 
at  Abbotsford  a  few  years  previously,  and  by  the 
favorable  opinion  he  had  expressed  to  others  of  my 
earlier  writings.  I  accordingly  sent  him  the  printed 
numbers  of  the  Sketch  Book  in  a  parcel  by  coach,  and 
at  the  same  time  wrote  to  him,  hinting  that  since  I 
had  had  the  pleasure  of  partaking  of  his  hospitality, 
a  reverse  had  taken  place  in  my  aflEairs  which  made 
the  successful  exercise  of  my  pen  all-important  to 
me;  I  begged  him,  therefore,  to  look  over  the  literary 
articles  I  had  forwarded  to  him,  and,  if  he  thought 
they  would  bear  European  republication,  to  ascertain 
whether  Mr.  Constable  would  be  inclined  to  be  the 
publisher. 

The  parcel  containing  my  work  went  by  coach  to 
Scott's  address  in  Edinburgh;  the  letter  went  by  mail 
to  his  residence  in  the  country.  By  the  very  first  post 
I  received  a  reply,  before  he  had  seen  my  work. 

"I  was  down  at  Kelso,**  said  he,  Vwhen  your  letter 
reached  Abbotsford.  I  am  now  on  my  way  to  town, 
and  will  converse  with  Constable,  and  do  all  in  my 
power  to  forward  your  views — ^I  assure  you  nothing 
will  give  me  more  pleasure.  *' 

The  hint,  however,  about  a  reverse  of  fortune  had 
struck  the  quick  apprehension  of  Scott,  and,  with  that 
practical  and  efficient  good  will  which  belonged  to 
his  nature,  he  had  already  devised  a  way  of  aiding  me. 

A  weekly  periodical,  he  went  on  to  inform  me,  was 

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24  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

about  to  be  set  up  in  Edinburgh,  supported  by  the 
most  respectable  talents,  and  amply  furnished  with 
all  the  necessary  information.  The  appointment  of 
the  editor,  for  which  ample  funds  were  provided, 
wotdd  be  five  hundred  pounds  sterling  a  year,  with  the 
reasonable  prospect  of  further  advantages.  This 
situation,  being  apparently  at  his  disposal,  he  frankly 
offered  to  me.  The  work,  however,  he  intimated, 
was  to  have  somewhat  of  a  political  bearing,  and 
he  expressed  an  apprehension  that  the  tone  it  was 
desired  to  adopt  might  not  suit  me.  *' Yet  I  risk  the 
question,'*  added  he,  ''because  I  know  no  man  so 
well  qualified  for  this  important  task,  and  perhaps 
because  it  will  necessarily  bring  you  to  Edinburgh. 
If  my  proposal  does  not  suit,  you  need  only  keep  the 
matter  secret,  and  there  is  no  harm  done.  'And  for 
my  love  I  pray  you  wrong  me  not.  *  If,  on  the  con- 
trary, you  think  it  cotdd  be  made  to  suit  you,  let  me 
know  as  soon  as  possible,  addressing  Castle-street, 
Edinburgh.*' 

In  a  postscript,  written  from  Edinburgh,  he  adds, 
"I  am  just  come  here,  and  have  glanced  over  the 
Sketch  Book,  It  is  positively  beautiful,  and  increases 
my  desire  to  crimp  you,  if  it  be  possible.  Some 
difficulties  there  always  are  in  managing  such  a  mat- 
ter, especially  at  the  outset;  but  we  will  obviate  them 
as  much  as  we  possibly  can.  ** 

The  following  is  from  an  imperfect  draught  of  my 
reply,  which  underwent  some  modifications  in  the 
copy  sent: 


yGoogk 


PREFACE  TO  THE  REVISED  EDITION  25 

"I  cannot  express  how  much  I  am  gratified  by  yotir 
letter.  I  had  begtm  to  feel  as  if  I  had  taken  an  tmwar- 
rantable  liberty;  but,  somehow  or  other,  there  is  a 
genial  sunshine  about  you  that  warms  every  creeping 
thing  into  heart  and  confidence.  Your  literary  pro- 
posal both  surprises  and  flatters  me,  as  it  evinces  a 
much  higher  opinion  of  my  talents  than  I  have 
myself." 

I  then  went  on  to  explain  that  I  found  myself  pecu- 
liarly unfitted  for  the  situation  offered  to  me,  not 
merely  by  my  political  opinions,  *  but  by  the  very 
constitution  and  habits  of  my  mind.  "My  whole 
course  of  life,"  I  observed,  **has  been  desultory,  and 
I  am  unfitted  for  any  periodically  recurring  task,  or 
any  stipulated  labor  of  body  or  mind.  I  have  no 
command  of  my  talents,  such  as  they  are,  and  have 
to  watch  the  varyings  of  my  mind  as  I  would  those  of 
a  weather-cock.  Practice  and  training  may  bring 
me  more  into  rule;  but  at  present  I  am  as  useless  for 
regular  service  as  one  of  my  own  country  Indians 
or  a  Don  Cossack. 

"  I  must,  therefore,  keep  on  pretty  much  as  I  have 
begtm;  writing  when  I  can,  not  when  I  would.  I  shall 
occasionally  shift  my  residence  and  write  whatever  is 
suggested  by  objects  before  me,  or  whatever  rises  in 
my  imagination;  and  hope  to  write  better  and  more 
copiously  by  and  by. 

"I  am  playing  the  egotist,  but  I  know  no  better 
way  of  answering  your  proposal  than  by  showing 
what  a  very  good-for-nothing  kind  of  being  I  am. 

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26  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

Should  Mr.  Constable  feel  inclined  to  make  a  bargain 
for  the  wares  I  have  on  hand,  he  will  encourage  me 
to  further  enterprise;  and  it  will  be  something  like 
trading  with  a  gipsy  for  the  fruits  of  his  prowlings, 
who  may  at  one  time  have  nothing  but  a  wooden 
bowl  to  offer,  and  at  another  time  a  silver  tankard. " 
In  reply,  Scott  expressed  regret,  but  not  stirprise,  at 
my  declining  what  might  have  proved  a  troublesome 
duty.  He  then  recurred  to  the  original  subject  of 
our  correspondence ;  entered  into  a  detail  of  the  various 
terms  upon  which  arrangements  were  made  between 
authors  and  booksellers,  that  I  might  take  my  choice; 
expressing  the  most  encouraging  confidence  of  the 
success  of  my  work,  and  of  previous  works  which  I 
had  produced  in  America,  **I  did  no  more,"  added 
he,  '*than  open  the  trenches  with  Constable;  but  I  am 
sure  if  you  will  take  the  trouble  to  write  to  him,  you 
will  find  him  disposed  to  treat  your  overtures  with 
every  degree  of  attention.  Or,  if  you  think  it  of 
consequence  in  the  first  place  to  see  me,  I  shall  be  in 
London  in  the  course  of  a  month,  and  whatever  my 
experience  can  command  is  most  heartily  at  your 
command.  But  I  can  add  little  to  what  I  have  said 
above,  except  my  earnest  recommendation  to  Con- 
stable to  enter  into  the  negotiation.  "* 

♦  I  cannot  avoid  subjoining  in  a  note  a  succeeding  paragraph 
of  Scott's  letter,  which,  though  it  does  not  relate  to  the  main 
subject  of  our  correspondence,  was  too  characteristic  to  be  omit- 
ted. Some  time  previously  I  had  sent  Miss  Sophia  Scott  small 
duodecimo  American  editions  of  her  father's  poems  published  in 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


PREFACE  TO  THE  REVISED  EDITION  27 

Before  the  receipt  of  this  most  obliging  letter,  how- 
ever, I  had  determined  to  look  to  no  leading  bookseller 
for  a  latmch,  but  to  throw  my  work  before  the  public 
at  my  own  risk,  and  let  it  sink  or  swim  according  to 
its  merits.  I  wrote  to  that  effect  to  Scott,  and  soon 
received  a  reply  ; 

**I  observe  with  pleasure  that  you  are  going  to 
come  forth  in  Britain.  It  is  certainly  not  the  very 
best  way  to  publish  on  one's  own  accotmt ;  for  the  book- 
sellers set  their  face  against  the  circulation  of  such 
works  as  do  not  pay  an  amazing  toll  to  themselves. 
But  they  have  lost  the  art  of  altogether  damming  up 
the  road  in  such  cases  between  the  author  and  the 
public,  which  they  were  once  able  to  do  as  effectually 
as  Diabolus  in  John  Bunyan's  Holy  War  closed  up 
the  windows  of  my  Lord  Understanding's  mansion. 
I  am  sure  of  one  thing,  that  you  have  only  to  be  known 
to  the  British  public  to  be  admired  by  them,  and  I 
would  not  say  so  tmless  I  really  was  of  that  opinion. 

Edinbui^gh  in  quarto  volumes;  showing  the  "nigromancy**  o£ 
the  American  press,  by  which  a  quart  of  wine  is  conjured  into  a 
pint  bottle.  Scott  obsen^es:  "In  my  hurry,  I  have  not  thanked 
you  in  Sophia's  name  for  the  kind  attention  which  furnished  her 
with  the  American  volumes.  I  am  not  quite  sure  I  can  add  my 
own,  since  you  have  made  her  acquainted  with  much  more  of 
papa's  folly  than  she  would  ever  otherwise  have  learned;  for  I 
had  taken  special  care  they  should  never  see  any  of  those  things 
during  their  earlier  years.  I  think  I  told  you  that  Walter  is 
sweeping  the  firmament  with  a  feather  like  a  maypole,  and 
indenting  the  pavement  with  a  sword  like  a  scythe — ^in  other 
words,  he  has  become  a  whiskered  hussar  in  the  i8th  dragoons. " 

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08  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

"If  you  ever  see  a  witty  but  rather  local  publication 
called  Blackwood's  Edinburgh  Magazine,  you  will  find 
some  notice  of  your  works  in  the  last  number:  the 
author  is  a  friend  of  mine,  to  whom  I  have  introduced 
you  in  your  literary  capacity.  His  name  is  Lockhart, 
a  yoimg  man  of  very  considerable  talent,  and  who  will 
soon  be  intimately  connected  with  my  family.  My 
faithful  friend  Knickerbocker  is  to  be  next  examined 
and  illustrated.  Constable  was  extremely  willing  to 
enter  into  consideration  of  a  treaty  for  your  works, 
but  I  foresee  will  be  still  more  so  when 


Your  name  is  up,  and  may  go 
From  Toledo  to  Madrid. 


^And  that  will  soon  be  the  case.     I  trust  to  be 

in  London  about  the  middle  of  the  month,  and  prom- 
ise myself  great  pleasure  in  once  again  shaking  you 
by  the  hand." 

The  first  voltune  of  the  Sketch  Book  was  put  to 
press  in  London  as  I  had  resolved,  at  my  own  risk, 
by  a  bookseller  unknown  to  fame,  and  without  any  of 
the  usual  arts  by  which  a  work  is  trtunpeted  into 
notice.  Still  some  attention  had  been  called  to  it  by 
the  extracts  which  had  previously  appeared  in  the 
Literary  Gazette,  and  by  the  kind  word  spoken  by 
the  editor  of  that  periodical,  and  it  was  getting  into 
fair  circulation,  when  my  worthy  bookseller  failed 
before  the  first  month  was  over,  and  the  sale  was 
interrupted. 


yGoogk 


PREFACE  TO  THE  REVISED  EDITION  29 

At  this  juncture  Scott  arrived  in  London.  I  called 
to  him  for  help,  as  I  was  sticking  in  the  mire,  and, 
more  propitious  than  Hercules,  he  put  his  own  shoul- 
der to  the  wheel.  Through  his  favorable  representa- 
tions, Murray  was  quickly  induced  to  undertake  the 
future  publication  of  the  work  which  he  had  previously 
declined.  A  further  edition  of  the  first  volume  was 
struck  off  and  the  second  volume  was  put  to  press, 
and  from  that  time  Murray  became  my  publisher, 
conducting  himself  in  all  his  df  alings  with  that  fair, 
open,  and  liberar  spirit  which  had  obtained  for  him 
the  well-merited  appellation  of  the  Prince  of  Book- 
sellers. 

Thus,  under  the  kind  and  cordial  auspices  of  Sir 
Walter  Scott,  I  began  my  literary  career  in  Europe; 
and  I  feel  that  I  am  but  discharging,  in  a  trifling  de- 
gree, my  debt  of  gratitude  to  the  memory  of  that 
golden-hearted  man  in  acknowledging  my  obliga-' 
tions  to  him. — But  who  of  his  literary  contempora- 
ries ever  applied  to  him  for  aid  or  counsel  that  did 
not  experience  the  most  prompt,  generous,  and 
effectual  assistance! 

W.  L 


yGoogk 


yGoogk 


THE  SKETCH  BOOK 
THE  AUTHOR'S  ACCOUNT  OF  HIMSELF 

I  am  of  this  mind  with  Hjjjjff,  that  as  the  snaile  that  crept 
out  of  her  shel  was  turned  efteoons  into  a  toad,  and  thereby  was 
forced  to  make  a  stoole  to  sit  on;  so  the  traveller  that  stragleth 
from  his  owne  country  is  in  a  short  time  transformed  into  so  mon- 
strous a  shape,  that  he  is  faine  to  alter  his  mansion  with  his 
manners,  and  to  live  where  he  can,  not  where  he  would. 

Lyly'sEuphues.* 

I  WAS  always  fond  of  visiting  new  scenes,  and 
observing  strange  characters  and  manners.  Even 
when  a  mere  child  I  began  my  travels,  and  made  many 
tours  of  discovery  into  foreign  parts  and  unknown 
regions  of  my  native  city,*  to  the  frequent  alarm  of 
my  parents,  and  the  emolument  of  the  town-crier. 
As  I  grew  into  boyhood,  I  extended  the  range  of  my 
observations.  My  holiday  afternoons  were  spent  in 
rambles  about  the  surrounding  country.  I  made 
myself  familiar  with  all  its  places  famous  in  history 
or  fable.  I  knew  every  spot  where  a  murder  or  rob- 
bery had  been  committed,  or  a  ghost  seen.  I  visited 
the  neighboring  villages,  and  added  greatly  to  my 
stock  of  knowledge,  by  noting  their  habits  and  customs, 
and  conversing  with  their  sages  and  great  men.  I 
even  journeyed  one  long  summer's  day  to  the  summit 

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32  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

of  the  most  distant  hill,  whence  I  stretched  my  eye 
over  many  a  mile  of  terra  incognita,  and  was  aston- 
ished to  find  how  vast  a  globe  I  inhabited. 

This  rambling  propensity  strengthened  with  my 
years.  Books  of  voyages^  and  travels  became  my 
passion,  and  in  devouring  their  contents,  I  neglected 
the  regular  exercises  of  the  school.  How  wistfully 
would  I  wander  about  the  pier-heads  in  fine  weather, 
and  watch  the  parting  ships,  bound  to  distant  climes — 
with  what  longing  eyes  would  I  gaze  after  their  les- 
sening sails,  and  waft  myself  in  imagination  to  the 
ends  of  the  earth! 

Further  reading  and  thinking,  though  they  brought 
this  vague  inclination  into  more  reasonable  botmds, 
only  served  to  make  it  more  decided.  I  visited 
various  parts  of  my  own  country;*  and  had  I  been 
merely  a  lover  of  fine  scenery,  I  should  have  felt  little 
desire  to  seek  elsewhere  its  gratification,  for  on  no 
country  have  the  charms  of  nattire  been  more  prodi- 
gally lavished.  Her  mighty  lakes,  ^  like  oceans  of  liquid 
silver;  her  mountains,  with  their  bright  aerial  tints; 
her  valleys,  teeming  with  wild  fertility;  her  tre- 
mendous cataracts,  thundering  in  their  solitudes;  her 
boundless  plains,  waving  with  spontaneous  verdure; 
her  broad  deep  rivers,  rolling  in  solemn  silence  to  the 
ocean;  her  trackless  forests,  where  vegetation  puts 
forth  all  its  magnificence;  her  skies,  kindling  with  the 
magic  of  summer  clouds  and  glorious  sunshine; — ^no, 
never  need  an  American  look  beyond  his  own  country 
for  the  sublime  and  beautiful  of  natural  scenery. 

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THE  AUTHORS  ACCOUNT  OF  HIMSELF  33 

But  Europe  held  forth  the  charms  of  storied  and 
poetical  association.  There  were  to  be  seen  the  master- 
pieces of  art,^  the  refinements  of  highly-cultivated 
society,  the  quaint  peculiarities  of  ancient  and  local 
custom.  My  native  country  was  full  of  youthful 
promise:  Europe  was  rich  in  the  accumulated  treasures 
of  age.  Her  very  ruins  told  the  history  of  times 
gone  by,  and  every  mouldering  stone  was  a  chronicle. 
I  longed  to  wander  over  the  scenes  of  renowned 
achievement — ^to  tread,  as  it  were,  in  the  footsteps 
of  antiquity — ^to  loiter  about  the  ruined  castle — ^to 
meditate  on  the  falling  tower — ^to  escape,  in  short, 
from  the  commonplace  realities  of  the  present,  and 
lose  myself  among  the  shadowy  grandeurs  of  the  past. 

I  had,  beside  all  this,  an  earnest  desire  to  see  the 
great  men  of  the  earth.  We  have,  it  is  true,  our  great 
men  in  America  :^  not  a  city  but  has  an  ample  share  of 
them.  I  have  mingled  among  them  in  my  time,  and 
been  almost  withered  by  the  shade  into  which  they 
cast  me;  for  there  is  nothing  so  baleful  to  a  small  man 
as  the  shade  of  a  great  one,  particularly  the  great  man 
of  a  city.  But  I  was  anxious  to  see  the  great  men  of 
Europe;  for  I  had  read  in  the  works  of  various  philos- 
ophers that  all  animals  degenerated  in  America, 
and  man  among  the  number.  A  great  man  of  Europe, 
thought  I,  must  therefore  be  as  superior  to  a  great 
man  of  America,  as  a  peak  of  the  Alps  to  a  highland 
of  the  Hudson;  and  in  this  idea  I  was  confirmed  by 
observing  the  comparative  importance  and  swelling 
magnitude  of  many  English  travellers  among  us,  who^ 
a 

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34  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

I  was  asstired,  were  very  little  people  in  their  own 
country.  I  will  visit  this  land  of  wonders,  thought  I, 
and  see  the  gigantic  race  from  which  I  am  degenerated. 
It  has  been  either  my  good  or  evil  lot  to  have  my 
roving  passion  gratified.  I  have  wandered  through 
different  countries,  and  witnessed  many  of  the  shift- 
ing scenes  of  life.  I  cannot  say  that  I  have  studied 
them  with  the  eye  of  a  philosopher;  but  rather  with 
the  satmtering  gaze  with  which  htmible  lovers  of  the 
picturesque  stroll  from  the  window  of  one  print-shop 
to  another;  caught  sometimes  hy  the  delineations  of 
beauty,  sometimes  by  the  distortions  of  caricature, 
and  sometimes  by  the  loveliness  of  landscape.  As  it 
is  the  fashion  for  modem  tourists  to  travel  pencil  in 
hand,  and  bring  home  their  portfolios  filled  with 
sketches,  I  am  disposed  to  get  up  a  few  for  the  enter- 
tainment of  my  friends.  When,  however,  I  look  over 
the  hints  and  memorandums  I  have  taken  down  for 
the  purpose,  my  neart  almost  fails  me  at  finding  how 
my  idle  htmior  has  led  me  aside  from  the  great  objects 
studied  by  every  regular  traveller  who  would  make  a 
book.  I  fear  I  shall  give  equal  disappointment  with 
an  unlucky  landscape  painter,  who  had  travelled  on 
the  continent,  but,  following  the  bent  of  his  vagrant 
inclination,  had  sketched  in  nooks,  and  comers,  and 
by-places.  His  sketch-book  was  accordingly  crowded 
with  cottages,  and  landscapes,  and  obscure  ruins;  but 
he  had  neglected  to  paint  St.  Peter's,^ or  the  Coliseum; 
the  cascade  of  Temi,  or  the  Bay  of  Naples ;  and  had  not 
a  singk  glacier  or  volcano  in  his  whole  collection. 

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THE  VOYAGE 

Ships,  ships,  I  will  descrie  you 

Amidst  the  main, 
I  will  come  and  try  you, 

What  you  are  protecting, 
And  projecting. 
What's  your  end  and  aim. 
One  goes  abroad  for  merchandise  and  trading, 
Another  stays  to  keep  his  country  from  invading, 
A  third  is  coming  home  with  rich  and  wealthy  lading. 
Halloo!  my  fancie,  whither  wilt  thou  go? 

Old  Poem. 

To  an  American  visiting  Europe,  the  long  voyage 
he  has  to  make  is  an  excellent  preparative.  The  tem- 
porary absence  of  worldly  scenes  and  employments 
produces  a  state  of  mind  peculiarly  fitted  to  receive 
new  and  vivid  impressions.  The  vast  space  of  waters 
that  separates  the  hemispheres  is  like  a  blank  page 
in  existence.  There  is  no  gradual  transition,  by 
which,  as  in  Europe,  the  features  and  population  of 
one  country  blend  almost  imperceptibly  with  those  of 
another.  From  the  moment  you  lose  sight  of  the  land 
you  have  left  all  is  vacancy  until  you  step  on  the 
opposite,  shore,  and  are  launched  at  once  into  the 
bustle  and  novelties  of  another  world. 

In  travelling  by  land  there  is  a  continuity  of  scene 
and  a  connected  succession  of  persons  and  incidents, 

35 

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36         •  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

that  cany  on  the  story  of  life,  and  lessen  the  effect 
of  absence  and  separation.  We  drag,  it  is  true,  '*a 
lengthening  chain, "  *  at  each  remove  of  our  pilgrimage ; 
but  the  chain  is  tmbroken:  we  can  trace  it  back  link 
by  link;  and  we  feel  that  the  last  still  grapples  us  to 
home.  But  a  wide  sea  voyage  severs  us  at  once.  It 
makes  us  conscious  of  being  cast  loose  from  the  secure 
anchorage  of  settled  life,  and  sent  adrift  upon  a  doubt- 
ful world.  It  interposes  a  gtdf ,  not  merely  imaginary, 
but  real,  between  us  and  our  homes — a  gulf  subject 
to  tempest,  and  fear,  and  uncertainty,  rendering  dis- 
tance palpable,  and  return  precarious. 

Such,  at  least,  was  the  case  with  myself.  As  I  saw 
the  last  blue  line  of  my  native  land  fade  away  like  a 
cloud  in  the  horizon,  it  seemed  as  if  I  had  closed  one 
volume  of  the  world  and  its  concerns,  and  had  time 
for  meditation,  before  I  opened  another.  That  land, 
too,  now  vanishing  from  my  view,  which  contained  all 
most  dear  to  me  in  life;  what  vicissitudes  might  occur 
in  it — ^what  changes  might  take  place  in  me,  before 
I  should  visit  it  again!  Who  can  tell,  when  he  sets 
forth  to  wander,  whither  he  may  be  driven  by  the 
uncertain  currents  of  existence;  or  when  he  may  re- 
turn; or  whether  it  may  ever  be  his  lot  to  revisit  the 
scenes  of  his  childhood? 

I  said  that  at  sea  all  is  vacancy;  I  should  correct  the 
expression.  To  one  given  to  day-dreaming,  and  fond 
of  losing  himself  in  reveries,  a  sea  voyage  is  full  of 
subjects  for  meditation ;  but  then  they  are  the  wonders 
of  the  deep,  and  of  the  air,  and  rather  tend  to  abstract 

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THE    VOYAGE  37 

the  mind  from  worldly  themes.  I  delighted  to  loll 
over  the  quarter-railing,  or  climb  to  the  main-top, 
of  a  calm  day,  and  muse  for  hours  together  on  the 
tranquil  bosom  of  a  summer's  sea;  to  gaze  upon  the 
piles  of  golden  clouds  just  peering  above  the  horizon, 
fancy  them  some  fairy  realms,  and  people  them  with  a 
creation  of  my  own; — to  watch  the  gentle  undulating 
billows,  rolling  their  silver  volumes,  as  if  to  die  away 
on  those  happy  shores. 

There  was  a  delicious  sensation  of  mingled  sectirity 
and  awe  with  which  I  looked  down  from  my  giddy 
height,  on  the  monsters  of  the  deep  at  their  imcouth 
gambols.  Shoals  of  porpoises  tumbling  about  the 
bow  of  the  ship;  the  grampus  slowly  heaving  his  huge 
form  above  the  surface;  or  the  ravenous  shark,  dart- 
ing, like  a  spectre,  through  the  blue  waters.  My 
imagination  would  conjtire  up  all  that  I  had  heard  or 
read  of  the  watery  world  beneath  me;  of  the  finny 
herds  that  roam  its  fathomless  valleys;  of  the  shape- 
less monsters  that  lurk  among  the  very  foundations 
of  the  earth;  and  of  those  wild  phantasms  that  swell 
the  tales  of  fishermen  and  sailors. 

Sometimes  a  distant  sail,  gliding  along  the  edge  of 
the  ocean,  would  be  another  theme  of  idle  speculation. 
How  interesting  this  fragment  of  a  world,  hastening  to 
rejoin  the  great  mass  of  existence!  What  a  glorious 
monument  of  human  invention;  which  has  in  a  man- 
ner triumphed  over  wind  and  wave;  has  brought  the 
ends  of  the  world  into  communion;  has  established 
an  interchange  of  blessings,  pouring  into  the  sterile 

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38  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

regions  of  the  north  all  the  luxuries  of  the  south;  has 
diffused  the  light  of  knowledge  and  the  charities  of 
cultivated  life;  and  has  thus  bound  together  those 
scattered  portions  of  the  human  race,  between  which 
nature  seemed  to  have  thrown  an  insurmountable 
barrier. 

We  one  day  descried  some  shapeless  object  drifting 
at  a  distance.  At  sea,  everything  that  breaks  the 
monotony  of  the  surrounding  expanse  attracts  atten- 
tion. It  proved  to  be  the  mast  of  a  ship  that  must 
have  been  completely  wrecked;  for  there  were" the 
remains  of  handkerchiefs,  by  which  some  of  the  crew 
had  fastened  themselves  to  this  spar,  to  prevent  their 
being  washed  off  by  the  waves.  There  was  no  trace 
by  which  the  name  of  the  ship  could  be  ascertained. 
The  wreck  had  evidently  drifted  about  for  many 
months;  clusters  of  shell- j5sh  had  fastened  about  it, 
and  long  seaweeds  flaunted  at  its  sides.  But  where, 
>thought  I,  is  the  crew?  Their  struggle  has  long  been 
over — ^they  have  gone  down  amidst  the  roar  of  the 
tempest — their  bones  lie  whitening  among  the  caverns 
of  the  deep.  Silence,  oblivion,  like  the  waves,  have 
closed  over  them,  and  no  one  can  tell  the  story  of 
their  end.  What  sighs  have  been  wafted  after  that 
ship!  what  prayers  offered  up  at  the  deserted  fireside 
of  home!  How  often  has  the  mistress,  the  wife,  the 
mother,  pored  over  the  daily  news,  to  catch  some 
casual  intelligence  of  this  rover  of  the  deep !  How  has 
expectation  darkened  into  anxiety — anxiety  into  dread 
•^-and  dread  into  despair!    Alas!  not  one  memento 

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THE   VOYAGE  39 

may  ever  return  for  love  to  cherish.  All  that  may 
ever  be  known  is  that  she  sailed  from  her  port, 
"and  was  never  heard  of  more!" 

The  sight  of  this  wreck,  as  usual,  gave  rise  to  many 
dismal  anecdotes.  This  was  particularly  the  case 
in  the  evening,  when  the  weather,  which  had  hitherto 
been  fair,  began  to  look  wild  and  threatening,  and  gave 
indications  of  one  of  those  sudden  storms  which  will 
sometimes  break  in  upon  the  serenity  of  a  summer 
voyage.  As  we  sat  round  the  dull  light  of  a  lamp 
in  the  cabin,  that  made  the  gloom  more  ghastly, 
every  one  had  his  tale  of  shipwreck  and  disaster.  I 
was  particularly  struck  with  a  short  one  related  by 
the  captain. 

'*As  I  was  once  sailing,"  said  he,  *'in  a  fine  stout 
ship  across  the  banks  of  Newfoundland,  ^  one  of  those 
heavy  fogs  which  prevail  in  those  parts  rendered  it 
impossible  for  us  to  see  far  ahead  even  in  the  daytime; 
but  at  night  the  weather  was  so  thick  that  we  could 
not  distinguish  any  object  at  twice  the  length  of  the 
ship.  I  kept  lights  at  the  masthead,  and  a  constant 
watch  forward  to  look  out  for  fishing  smacks,  which 
are  accustomed  to  lie  at  anchor  on  the  banks.  The 
wind  was  blowing  a  smacking  breeze,  and  we  were 
going  at  a  great  rate  through  the  water.  Suddenly 
the  watch  gave  the  alarm  of  'a  sail  ahead!* — ^it  was 
scarcely  uttered  before  we  were  upon  her.  She  was 
a  small  schooner,  at  anchor,  with  her  broadside 
towards  us.  The  crew  were  all  asleep,  and  had  neg- 
lected to  hoist  a  light.    We  struck  her  just  amidships. 

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40  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

The  force,  the  size,  the  weight  of  our  vessel  bore  her 
down  below  the  waves;  we  passed  over  her  and  were 
hurried  on  our  course.  As  the  crashing  wreck  was 
sinking  beneath  us,  I  had  a  glimpse  of  two  or  three 
half -naked  wretches  rushing  from  her  cabin;  they  just 
started  from  their  beds  to  be  swallowed  shrieking  by 
the  waves.  I  heard  their  drowning  cry  mingling  with 
the  wind.  The  blast  that  bore  it  to  our  ears  swept 
us  out  of  all  further  hearing.  I  shall  never  forget 
that  cry !  It  was  some  time  before  we  could  put  the 
ship  about,  she  was  under  such  headway.  We  re- 
turned, as  nearly  as  we  could  guess,  to  the  place  where 
the  smack  had  anchored.  We  cruised  about  for  several 
hours  in  the  dense  fog.  We  fired  signal  guns,  and 
listened  if  we  might  hear  the  halloo  of  any  survivors: 
but  all  was  silent — ^we  never  saw  or  heard  anything 
of  them  more.  *'  • 

I  confess  these  stories,  for  a  time,  put  an  end  to  all 
my  fine  fancies.  The  storm  increased  with  the  night. 
The  sea  was  lashed  into  tremendous  confusion.  There 
was  a  fearful,  stdlen  sound  of  rushing  waves,  and 
broken  surges.  Deep  called  unto  deep.^  At  times 
the  black  column  of  clouds  overhead  seemed  rent 
asunder  by  flashes  of  lightning  which  quivered  along 
the  foaming  billows,  and  made  the  succeeding  dark- 
ness doubly  terrible.  The  thunders  bellowed  over 
the  wild  waste  of  waters,  and  were  echoed  and  pro- 
longed by  the  mountain  waves.  As  I  saw  the  ship 
staggering  and  plunging  among  these  roaring  caverns 
It  seemed  miraculous  that  she  regained  her  balance, 

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THE   VOYAGE  41 

or  preserved  her  buoyancy.  Her  yards  would  dip 
into  the  water:  her  bow  was  almost  buried  beneath 
the  waves.  Sometimes  an  impending  surge  appeared 
ready  to  overwhelm  her,  and  nothing  but  a  dexterous 
movement  of  the  helm  preserved  her  from  the  shock. 

When  I  retired  to  my  cabin,  the  awful  scene  still 
followed  me.  The  whistling  of  the  wind  through  the 
rigging  sounded  like  funereal  wailings.  The  creaking 
of  the  masts,  the  straining  and  groaning  of  bulk- 
heads, as  the  ship  labored  in  the  weltering  sea,  were 
frightful.  As  I  heard  the  waves  rushing  along  the 
sides  of  the  ship,  and  roaring  in  my  very  ear,  it  seemed 
as  if  Death  were  raging  round  this  floating  prison, 
seeking  for  his  prey:  the  mere  starting  of  a  nail,  the 
yawning  of  a  seam,  might  give  him  entrance. 

A  fine  day,  however,  with  a  tranquil  sea  and  favor- 
ing breeze,  soon  put  all  these  dismal  reflections  to 
flight.  It  is  impossible  to  resist  the  gladdening 
influence  of  flne  weather  and  fair  wind  at  sea.  When 
the  ship  is  decked  out  in  all  her  canvas,  every  sail 
swelled,  and  careering  gayly  over  the  curling  waves, 
how  lofty,  how  gallant  she  appears — how  she  seems 
to  lord  it  over  the  deep! 

I  might  fill  a  volume  with  the  reveries  of  a  sea  voy- 
age, for  with  me  it  is  almost  a  continual  reverie— 
but  it  is  time  to  get  to  shore. 

It  was  a  fine  sunny  morning  when  the  thrilling  cry 
of  "land!"  was  given  from  the  masthead.  None 
but  those  who  have  experienced  it  can  form  an  idea 
of  the  delicious  throng  of  sensations  which  rush  into 

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42  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

an  American's  bosom,  when  he  first  comes  in  sight  of 
Europe.  There  is  a  volimie  of  associations  with  the 
very  name.  It  is  the  land  of  promise,  teeming  with 
everything  of  which  his  childhood  has  heard,  or  on 
which  his  studious  years  have  pondered. 

From  that  time  until  the  moment  of  arrival,  it 
was  all  feverish  excitement.  The  ships  of  war,  that 
prowled  like  guardian  giants  along  the  coast ;  the  head- 
lands of  Ireland,  stretching  out  into  the  channel;  the 
Welsh  mountains,  towering  into  the  clouds;  all  were 
objects  of  intense  interest.  As  we  sailed  up  the 
Mersey,  I  reconnoitred  the  shores  with  a  telescope. 
My  eye  dwelt  with  delight  on  neat  cottages,  with 
their  trim  shrubberies  and  green  grass  plots.  I  saw 
the  mouldering  ruin  of  an  abbey  overrun  with  ivy, 
and  the  taper  spire  of  a  village  church  rising  from  the 
brow  of  a  neighboring  hill — ^all  were  characteristic  of 
England. 

The  tide  and  wind  were  so  favorable  that  the  ship 
was  enabled  to  come  at  once  to  the  pier.  It  was 
thronged  with  people;  some,  idle  lookers-on,  others, 
eager  expectants  of  friends  or  relatives.  I  could 
distinguish  the  merchant  to  whom  the  ship  was  con- 
signed. I  knew  him  by  his  calctdating  brow  and 
restless  air.  His  hands  were  thrust  into  his  pockets; 
he  was  whistling  thoughtfully,  and  walking  to  and 
fro,  a  small  space  having  been  accorded  him  by  the 
crowd,  in  deference  to  his  temporary  importance. 
There  were  repeated  cheerings  and  salutations  inter- 
changed between  the  shore  and  the  ship,  as  friends 


yGoogk 


THE   VOYAGE  45 

happened  to  recognize  each  other.  I  particularly 
noticed  one  young  woman  of  humble  dress,  but 
interesting  demeanor.  She  was  leaning  forward  from 
among  the  crowd;  her  eye  hurried  over  the  ship  as  it 
neared  the  shore,  to  catch  some  wished-for  cotmte- 
nance.  She  seemed  disappointed  and  agitated;  when 
I  heard  a  faint  voice  call  her  name.  It  was  from  a 
poor  sailor  who  had  been  ill  all  the  voyage,  and  had  ex- 
cited the  sjnnpathy  of  every  one  on  board.  When  the 
weather  was  fine,  his  messmates  had  spread  a  mattress 
for  him  on  deck  in  the  shade,  but  of  late  his  illness 
had  so  increased,  thut  he  had  taken  to  his  hammock, 
and  only  breathed  a  wish  that  he  might  see  his  wife 
before  he  died.  He  had  been  helped  on  deck  as  we 
came  up  the  river,  and  was  now  leaning  against  the 
shrouds,  with  a  countenance  so  wasted,  so  pale,  so 
ghastly,  that  it  was  no  wonder  even  the  eye  of  affection 
did  not  recognize  him.  But  at  the  sound  of  his 
voice,  her  eye  darted  on  his  features;  it  read,  at  once^ 
a  whole  volume  of  sorrow;  she  clasped  her  hands, 
uttered  a  faint  shriek,  and  stood  wringing  them  in 
silent  agony. 

All  now  was  hurry  and  bustle.  The  meetings  of 
acquaintances — ^the  greetings  of  friends — ^the  consul- 
tations of  men  of  business.  I  alone  was  solitary  and 
idle.  I  had  no  friend  to  meet,  no  cheering  to  receive. 
I  stepped  upon  the  land  of  my  forefathers — ^but  felt 
that  I  was  a  stranger  in  the  land. 


yGoogk 


ROSCOE 

In  the  service  of  mankind  to  be 
A  guardian  god  below;  still  to  employ 
The  mind*s  brave  ardor  in  heroic  aims, 
Such  as  may  raise  us  o'er  the  grovelling  herd, 
And  make  us  shine  forever — that  is  life. 

Thomson. 

One  of  the  first  places  to  which  a  stranger  is  taken 
in  Liverpool  is  the  Athenaeum.  It  is  established  on  a 
liberal  and  judicious  plan;  it  contains  a  good  library, 
and  spacious  reading-room,  and  is  the  great  literary 
resort  of  the  place.  Go  there  at  what  hour  you  may, 
you  are  sure  to  find  it  filled  with  grave-looking  per- 
sonages, deeply  absorbed  in  the  study  of  newspapers. 

As  I  was  once  visiting  this  haunt  of  the  learned,  my 
attention  was  attracted  to  a  person  just  entering  the 
room.  He  was  advanced  in  life,  tall,  and  of  a  form 
that  might  once  have  been  commanding,  but  it  was  a 
little  bowed  by  time — ^perhaps  by  care.  He  had  a 
noble  Roman  style  of  countenance;  a  head  that  would 
have  pleased  a  painter;  and  though  some  slight  fur- 
rows on  his  brow  showed  that  wasting  thought  had 
been  busy  there,  yet  his  eye  still  beamed  with  the  fire 
of  a  poetic  soul.  There  was  something  in  his  whole 
appearance  that  indicated  a  being  of  a  different  order 
from  the  bustling  race  around  him. 

44 

Digitized  by  CjOOQ  IC 


ROSCOE  45 

I  inquired  his  name,  and  was  informed  that  it  was 
Roscoe.  I  drew  back  with  an  involuntary  feeling  of 
veneration.  This,  then,  was  an  author  of  celebrity; 
this  was  one  of  those  men  whose  voices  have  gone  forth 
to  the  ends  of  the  earth;  with  whose  minds  I  have 
communed  even  in  the  solitudes  of  America.  Accus- 
tomed, as  we  are  in  our  country,  to  know  European 
writers  only  by  their  works,  we  cannot  conceive  of 
them,  as  of  other  men,  engrossed  by  trivial  or  sordid 
pursuits,  and  jostling  with  the  crowd  of  common 
minds  in  the  dusty  paths  of  life.  They  pass  before  our 
imaginations  like  superior  beings,  radiant  with  the 
emanations  of  their  genius,  and  surrotmded  by  a  halo 
of  literary  glory. 

To  find,  therefore,  the  elegant  historian  of  the 
Medici,^  mingling  among  the  busy  sons  of  traffic,  at 
first  shocked  my  poetical  ideas;  but  it  is  from  the  very 
circumstances  and  situation  in  which  he  has  been 
placed  that  Mr.  Roscoe  derives  his  highest  claims  to 
admiration.  It  is  interesting  to  notice  how  some 
minds  seem  almost  to  create  themselves,  springing  up 
under  every  disadvantage,  and  working  their  solitary 
but  irresistible  way  through  a  thousand  obstacles. 
Nature  seems  to  delight  in  disappointing  the  as- 
siduities of  art,  with  which  it  would  rear  legitimate 
dulness  to  maturity;  and  to  glory  in  the  vigor  and 
luxuriance  of  her  chance  productions.  She  scatters 
the  seeds  of  genius  to  the  winds,  and  though  some  may 
perish  among  the  stony  places  of  the  world, "  and  som^ 
be  choked  by  the  thorns  and  brambles  of  early  adver- 

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46  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

sity,  yet  others  will  now  and  then  strike  root  even  in 
the  clefts  of  the  rock,  struggle  bravely  up  into  sunshine, 
and  spread  over  their  sterile  birthplace  all  the  beauties 
of  vegetation. 

Such  has  been  the  case  with  Mr.  Roscoe.  Bom  in 
a  place  apparently  ungenial  to  the  growth  of  literary 
talent;  in  the  very  market-place  of  trade;  without 
fortune,  family  connections,  or  patronage;  self- 
prompted,  self-sustained,  and  almost  self-taught,  he 
has  conquered  every  obstacle,  achieved  his  way  to 
eminence,  and,  having  become  one  of  the  ornaments 
of  the  nation,  has  turned  the  whole  force  of  his  talents 
and  influence  to  advance  and  embellish  his  native 
town. 

Indeed,  it  is  this  last  trait  in  his  character  which  has 
given  him  the  greatest  interest  in  my  eyes,  and  in- 
duced me  particularly  to  point  him  out  to  my  coimtry- 
men.  Eminent  as  are  his  literary  merits,  he  is  but  one 
among  the  many  distinguished  authors  of  this  intel- 
lectual nation.  They,  however,  in  general,  live  but 
for  their  own  fame,  or  their  own  pleasures.  Their  pri- 
vate history  presents  no  lesson  to  the  world,  or  perhaps 
a  humiliating  one  of  human  frailty  and  inconsistency. 
At  best,  they  are  prone  to  steal  away  from  the  bustle 
and  commonplace  of  busy  existence;  to  indulge  in 
the  selfishness  of  lettered  ease ;  and  to  revel  in  scenes  of 
mental,  but  exclusive,  enjoyment. 

Mr.  Roscoe,  on  the  contrary,  has  claimed  none  of 
the  accorded  privileges  of  talent.  He  has  shut  him- 
self up  in  no  garden  of  thought,  nor  elysium  of  fancy; 

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ROSCOE  47 

but  has  gone  forth  into  the  highways  and  thorough- 
fares of  life;  he  has  planted  bowers  by  the  wayside, 
for  the  refreshment  of  the  pilgrim  and  the  sojourner, 
and  has  opened  pure  foimtains,  where  the  laboring 
man  may  turn  aside  from  the  dust  and  heat  of  the  day, 
and  drink  of  the  living  streams  of  knowledge. '  There 
is|i "  daily  beauty  in  his  life, "  *  on  which  mankind  may 
meditate  and  grow  better.  It  exhibits  no  lofty  and 
almost  useless,  because  inimitable,  example  of  excel- 
lence; but  presents  a  picture  of  active,  yet  simple 
and  imitable  virtues,  which  are  within  every  man's 
reach,  but  which,  unfortunately,  are  not  exercised  by 
many,  or  this  world  wotdd  be  a  paradise. 

But  his  private  life  is  peculiarly  worthy  the  atten- 
tion of  the  citizens  of  our  young  and  busy  country, 
where  literature  and  the  elegant  arts  must  grow  up 
side  by  side  with  the  coarser  plants  of  daily  necessity; 
and  must  depend  for  their  ctdture,  not  on  the  exclusive 
devotion  of  time  and  wealth,  nor  the  quickening  rays 
of  titled  patronage,  but  on  hours  and  seasons  snatched 
from  the  pursuit  of  worldly  interests,  by  intelligent 
and  public-spirited  individuals. 

He  has  shown  how  much  may  be  done  for  a  place  in 
hours  of  leisure  by  one  master  spirit,  and  how  com- 
pletely it  can  give  its  own  impress  to  surrounding 
objects.  Like  his  own  Lorenzo  de*  Medici,  on  whom 
he  seems  to  have  fixed  his  eye  as  on  a  pure  model  of 
antiquity,  he  has  interwoven  the  history  of  his  life 
with  the  history  of  his  native  town,  and  has  made  the 
f cimdations  of  its  fame  the  monuments  of  his  virtues. 


yGoogk 


48  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

Wherever  you  go  in  Liverpool,  yoti  perceive  traces  c^ 
his  footsteps  in  all  that  is  elegant  and  liberal.  He 
f  otind  the  tide  of  wealth  flowing  merely  in  the  channels 
of  traffic;  h^  has  diverted  from  it  invigorating  rills 
to  refresh  the  garden  of  literature.  By  his  own 
example  and  constant  exertions  he  has  effected  that 
xmion  of  commerce  and  the  intellectual  pursuits,  so 
eloquently  recommended  in  one  of  his  latest  writings:* 
and  has  practically  proved  how  beautifully  they  may 
be  brought  to  harmonize,  and  to  benefit  each  other. 
The  noble  institutions  for  Hterary  and  scientific  pur- 
poses, which  reflect  such  credit  on  Liverpool,  and  are 
giving  such  an  impulse  to  the  public  mind,  have  mostly 
been  originated,  and  have  all  been  effectively  pro- 
moted, by  Mr.  Roscoe;  and  when  we  consider  the 
rapidly  increasing  opulence  and  magnitude  of  that 
town,  which  promises  to  vie  in  commercial  import- 
ance with  the  metropolis,  it  will  be  perceived  that 
in  awakening  an  ambition  of  mental  improvement 
among  its  inhabitants  he  has  effected  a  great  benefit 
to  the  cause  of  British  literature. 

In  America,  we  know  Mr.  Roscoe  only  as  the 
author — ^in  Liverpool  he  is  spoken  of  as  the  banker; 
and  I  was  told  of  his  having  been  unfortunate  in 
business.  I  could  not  pity  him,  as  I  heard  some  rich 
men  do.  I  considered  him  far  above  the  reach  of 
pity.  Those  who  live  only  for  the  world,  and  in  the 
world,  may  be  cast  down  by  the  frowns  of  adversity;* 

^^  Address  on  the  opening  iDf  the  Liverpool  Institution. 

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ROSCOE  49 

but  a  man  like  Roscoe  is  not  to  be  overcome  by  the 
reverses  of  fortune.  They  do  but  drive  him  in  upon 
the  resources  of  his  own  mind;  to  the  superior  society 
of  his  own  thoughts;  which  the  best  of  men  are  apt 
sometimes  to  neglect,  and  to  roam  abroad  in  search 
of  less  worthy  associates.  He  is  independent  of  the 
world  around  him.  He  lives  with  antiquity  and  pos- 
terity; with  antiquity,  in  the  sweet  communion  of 
studious  retirement;  and  with  posterity,  in  the  gener- 
ous aspirings  after  future  renown.  The  solitude  of 
such  a  mind  is  its  state  of  highest  enjoyment.  It  ia 
then  visited  by  those  elevated  meditations  which  are 
the  proper  aliment  of  noble  souls,  and  are,  like  manna, ' 
sent  from  heaven,  in  the  wilderness  of  this  world. 

While  my  feelings  were  yet  alive  on  the  subject,  it 
was  my  fortune  to  light  on  further  traces  of  Mr. 
Roscoe.  I  was  riding  out  with  a  gentleman,  to  view 
the  environs  of  Liverpool,  when  he  turned  off,  through 
a  gate,  into  some  ornamented  grounds.  After  riding 
a  short  distance,  we  came  to  a  spacious  mansion  of 
freestone,  built  in  the  Grecian  style.  It  was  not  in 
the  purest  taste,  yet  it  had  an  air  of  elegance,  and  th* 
situation  was  delightftd.  A  fine  lawn  sloped  away 
from  it,  studded  with  clumps  of  trees,  so  disposed  a£ 
to  break  a  soft  fertile  country  into  a  variety  of  land- 
scapes. The  Mersey  was  seen  winding  a  broad  quiet 
sheet  of  water  through  an  expanse  of  green  meadow- 
land;  while  the  Welsh  mountains,  blended  with  clouds, 
and  melting  into  distance,  bordered  the  horizon. 

This  was  Roscoe's  favorite  residence  dtiring  tho 

4 

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^  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

days  of  his  prosperity.  It  had  been  the  seat  of  ele- 
gant hospitality  and  literary  retirement.  The  house 
was  now  silent  and  deserted.  I  saw  the  windows  of 
the  study,  \fhich  looked  out  upon  the  soft  scenery  I 
have  mentioned.  The  windows  were  closed — ^the 
library  was  gone.  Two  or  three  ill-favored  beings 
were  loitering  about  the  place,  whom  my  fancy  pic- 
tured into  retainers  of  the  law.  It  was  like  visiting 
some  classic  fountain,  that  had  once  welled  its  pure 
waters  in  a  sacred  shade,  but  finding  it  dry  and  dusty, 
with  the  lizard  and  the  toad  brooding  over  the  shat- 
tered marbles. 

I  inquired  after  the  fate  of  Mr.  Roscoe's  library, 
which  had  consisted  of  scarce  and  foreign  books,  from 
many  of  which  he  had  drawn  the  materials  for  his 
Italian  histories.  It  had  passed  imder  the  hammer  of 
the  auctioneer,  and  was  dispersed  about  the  country. 
The  good  people  of  the  vicinity  thronged  like  wreckers 
to  get  some  part  of  the  noble  vessel  that  had  been 
driven  on  shore.  Did  such  a  scene  admit  of  ludicrous 
associations,  we  might  imagine  something  whimsical 
in  this  strange  irruption  in  the  regions  of  learning. 
Pigmies  nmimaging  the  armory  of  a  giant,  and  con- 
tending for  the  possession  of  weapons  which  they  could 
not  wield.  We  might  picture  to  ourselves  some  knot 
of  spectdators,  debating  with  calctdating  brow  over  the 
quaint  binding  and  illuminated  margin  of  an  obsolete 
author;  of  the  air  of  intense  but  baffled  sagacity, 
with  which  some  successful  purchaser  attempted  to 
dive  into  the  black-letter  bargain  he  had  secured. 


yGoogk 


ROSCOE  51 

It  is  a  beautiful  incident  in  the  story  of  Mr.  Roscoe's 
misfortunes,  and  one  which  cannot  fail  to  interest  the 
studious  mind,  that  the  parting  with  his  books  seems 
to  have  touched  upon  his  tenderest  feelings,  and  to 
have  been  the  only  circumstance  that  could  provoke 
the  notice  of  his  muse.  The  scholar  only  knows  how 
dear  these  silent,  yet  eloquent,  companions  of  pure 
thoughts  and  innocent  hours  become  in  the  seasons 
of  adversity.  When  all  that  is  worldly  turns  to  dross 
around  us,  these  only  retain  their  steady  value. 
When  friends  grow  cold,  and  the  converse  of  inti- 
mates languishes  into  vapid  civility  and  common- 
place, these  only  continue  the  unaltered  countenance 
of  happier  days,  and  cheer  us  with  that  true  friend- 
ship which  never  deceived  hope,  nor  deserted  sorrow. 

I  do  not  wish  to  censure;  but,  surely,  if  the  people 
of  Liverpool  had  been  properly  sensible  of  what  was 
due  to  Mr.  Roscoe  and  themselves,  his  library  wotdd 
never  have  been  sold.  Good  worldly  reasons  may, 
doubtless,  be  given  for  the  circumstance,  which  it 
would  be  difficult  to  combat  with  others  that  might 
seem  merely  fanciful;  but  it  certainly  appears  to  me 
such  an  opportunity  as  seldom  occurs,  of  cheering  a 
noble  mind  struggling  under  misfortunes,  by  one  of 
the  most  delicate,  but  most  expressive  tokens  of  public 
sympathy.  It  is  difficult,  however,  to  estimate  a  man 
of  genius  properly  who  is  daily  before  our  eyes.  He 
becomes  mingled  and  confounded  with  other  men. 
His  great  quaUties  lose  their  novelty,  we  become  too 
familiar  with  the  conunon  materials  which  form  th^ 

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52  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

basis  even  of  the  loftiest  character.  Some  of  Mr, 
Roscoe's  townsmen  may  regard  him  merely  as  a  man 
of  business;  others  as  a  politician;  all  find  him  engaged 
like  themselves  in  ordinary  occupations,  and  sur- 
passed, perhaps,  by  themselves  on  some  points  of 
worldly  wisdom.  Even  that  amiable  and  unosten- 
tatious simplicity  of  character,  which  gives  the  name- 
less grace  to  real  excellence,  may  cause  him  to  be 
undervalued  by  some  coarse  minds,  who  do  not  know 
that  true  worth  is  always  void  of  glare  and  pretension. 
But  the  man  of  letters  who  speaks  of  Liverpool, 
speaks  of  it  as  the  residence  of  Roscoe. — ^The  intelli- 
gent traveller  who  visits  it  inquires  where  Roscoe  is 
to  be  seen. — He  is  the  literary  landmark  of  the  place, 
indicating  its  existence  to  the  distant  scholar. — He  is, 
like  Pompey's  column^  at  Alexandria,  towering  alone 
in  classic  dignity. 

The  following  sonnet,  addressed  by  Mr.  Roscoe  to 
his  books  on  parting  with  them,  is  alluded  to  in  the 
preceding  article.  If  anything  can  add  effect  to  the 
pure  feeling  and  elevated  thought  here  displayed, 
it  is  the  conviction  that  the  whole  is  no  effusion  of 
fancy,  but  a  faithftd  transcript  from  the  writer's 
ieart. 

TO  MY  BOOKS 

As  one  who,  destined  from  his  friends  to  part 
Regrets  his  loss,  but  hopes  again  erewhile 
To  share  their  converse  and  enjoy  their  smile, 

And  tempers  as  he  may  affliction's  dart ; 

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ROSCOE  53 

Thus,  loved  associates,  chiefs  of  elder  art, 

Teachers  of  wisdom,  who  could  once  beguile 
My  tedious  hours,  and  lighten  every  toil, 

I  now  resign  you  ;  nor  with  fainting  heart ; 

For  pass  a  few  short  years,  or  days,  or  hours, 
And  happier  seasons  may  their  dawn  unfold, 
And  all  your  sacred  fellowship  restore  : 
When,  freed  from  earth,  unlimited  its  powers. 

Mind  shall  with  mind  direct  commimion  hold, 
And  kindred  spirits  meet  to  part  no  more. 


yGoogk 


THE  WIPE 

The  treastires  of  the  deep  are  not  so  precious 
As  are  the  cxmceal'd  comforts  of  a  man 
Locked  up  in  woman's  love.    I  scent  the  air 
Of  blessings,  when  I  come  but  near  the  house. 
What  a  delicious  breath  marriage  sends  forth  .  .  . 
The  violet  bed  *s  not  sweeter. 

MiDDLBTON. 

I  HAVE  often  had  occasion  to  remark  the  fortitude 
with  which  women  sustain  the  most  overwhelming 
reverses  of  fortune.  Those  disasters  which  break 
down  the  spirit  of  a  man,  and  prostrate  him  in  the 
dust,  seem  to  call  forth  all  the  energies  of  the  softer 
sex,  and  give  such  intrepidity  and  elevation  to  their 
character,  that  at  times  it  approaches  to  sublimity. 
Nothing  can  be  more  touching  than  to  behold  a  soft 
and  tender  female,  who  had  been  all  weakness  and 
dependence,  and  alive  to  every  trivial  roughness, 
while  treading  the  prosperous  paths  of  life,  suddenly 
rising  in  mental  force  to  be  the  comforter  and  support 
of  her  husband  imder  misfortune,  and  abiding,  with 
unshrinking  firmness,  the  bitterest  blasts  of  adversity. 

As  the  vine,  which  has  long  twined  its  graceful 
foliage  about  the  oak,  and  been  lifted  by  it  into 
sunshine,  will,  when  the  hardy  plant  is  rifted  by  the 
thunderbolt,  cling  round  it  with  its  caressing  tendrils, 

54 

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THE  WIFE  55 

and  bind  up  its  shattered  boughs;  so  is  it  beautifully 
ordered  by  Providence,  that  woman,  who  is  the  mere 
dependent  and  ornament  of  man  in  his  happier  hours, 
should  be  his  stay  and  solace  when  smitten  with  sud- 
den calamity;  winding  herself  into  the  rugged  recesses 
of  his  nature,  tenderly  supporting  the  drooping  head, 
and  binding  up  the  broken  heart. 

I  was  once  congratulating  a  friend,  who  had  around 
him  a  blooming  family,  knit  together  in  the  strongest 
affection.  ''I  can  wish  you  no  better  lot,"  said  he, 
with  enthusiasm,  ''than  to  have  a  wife  and  children. 
If  you  are  prosperous,  there  they  are  to  share  your 
prosperity;  if  otherwise,  there  they  are  to  comfort 
you."  And,  indeed,  I  have  observed  that  a  married 
man  falling  into  misfortune  is  more  apt  to  retrieve  his 
situation  in  the  world  than  a  single  one;  partly  because 
he  is  more  stimulated  to  exertion  by  the  necessities 
of  the  helpless  and  beloved  beings  who  depend  upon 
him  for  subsistence;  but  chiefly  because  his  spirits  are 
soothed  and  relieved  by  domestic  endearments,  and 
his  self-respect  kept  alive  by  finding  that  though  all 
abroad  is  darkness  and  humiliation,  yet  there  is  still 
a  little  world  of  love  at  home,  of  which  he  is  the  mon- 
arch. Whereas  a  single  man  is  apt  to  run  to  waste  and 
self-neglect;  to  fancy  himself  lonely  and  abandoned, 
and  his  heart  to  fall  to  ruin  like  some  deserted  mansion, 
for  want  of  an  inhabitant. 

These  observations  call  to  mind  a  little  domestic 
story,  of  which  I  was  once  a  witness.  My  intimate 
friend,  Leslie,  had  married  a  beautiful  and  accom- 

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56  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

plished  girl,  who  had  been  brought  up  in  the  midst  of 
fashionable  life.  She  had,  it  is  true,  no  fortune,  but 
that  of  my  friend  was  ample;  and  he  delighted  in  the 
anticipation  of  indulging  her  in  every  elegant  pursuit, 
and  administering  to  those  delicate  tastes  and  fancies 
that  spread  a  kind  of  witchery  about  the  sex. — 
''Her  life,"  said  he,  ''shall  be  like  a  fairy  tale." 

The  very  difference  in  their  characters  produced  an 
harmonious  combination:  he  was  of  a  romantic  and 
somewhat  serious  cast;  she  was  all  life  and  gladness. 
I  have  often  noticed  the  mute  rapture  with  which  he 
would  gaze  upon  her  in  company,  of  which  her  spright- 
ly powers  made  her  the  delight;  and  how,  in  the  midst 
of  applause,  her  eye  would  still  turn  to  him,  as  if  there 
alone  she  sought  favor  and  acceptance.  When 
leaning  on  his  arm,  her  slender  form  contrasted  finely 
with  his  tall  manly  person.  The  fond  confiding  air 
with  which  she  looked  up  to  him  seemed  to  call  forth 
a  flush  of  triumphant  pride  and  cherishing  tenderness, 
as  if  he  doted  on  his  lovely  burden  for  its  very 
helplessness.  Never  did  a  couple  set  forward  on  the 
flowery  path  of  early  and  well-suited  marriage^  with 
a  fairer  prospect  of  felicity. 

It  was  the  misfortune  of  my  friend,  however,  to 
have  embarked  his  property  in  large  speculations; 
and  he  had  not  been  married  many  months,  when,  by 
a  succession  of  sudden  disasters,  it  was  swept  from  him 
and  he  found  himself  reduced  almost  to  penury.  For 
a  time  he  kept  his  situation  to  himself,  and  went 
aboat  with  a  haggard  coimtenance,  and  a  breaking 

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THE  WIPE  57 

heart.  His  Kfe  was  but  a  protracted  agony;  and  what 
rendered  it  more  insupportable  was  the  necessity  of 
keeping  up  a  smile  in  the  presence  of  his  wife;  for  he 
could  not  bring  himself  to  overwhelm  her  with  the 
news.  She  saw,  however,  with  the  quick  eyes  of 
affection,  that  all  was  not  well  with  him.  She  marked 
his  altered  looks  and  stifled  sighs,  and  was  not  to 
be  deceived  by  his  sickly  and  vapid  attempts  at  cheer* 
fulness.  She  tasked  all  her  sprightly  powers  and 
tender  blandishments  to  win  him  back  to  happiness; 
but  she  only  drove  the  arrow  deeper  into  his  soul. 
The  more  he  saw  cause  to  love  her,  the  more  tor- 
turing was  the  thought  that  he  was  soon  to  make 
her  wretched.  A  little  while,  thought  he,  and  the 
smile  will  vanish  from  that  cheek — -the  song  will  die 
away  from  those  lips — the  lustre  of  those  eyes  will  be 
quenched  with  sorrow;  and  the  happy  heart,  which 
now  beats  lightly  in  that  bosom,  will  be  weighed  down 
like  mine,  by  the  cares  and  miseries  of  the  world. 

At  length  he  came  to  me  one  day,  and  related  his 
whole  situation  in  a  tone  of.  the  deepest  despair. 
When  I  heard  him  through  I  inquired,  ''Does  your 
wife  know  all  this?" — ^At  the  question  he  burst  into 
an  agony  of  tears.  *'For  God's  sake!"  cried  he,  ''if 
you  have  any  pity  on  me,  don't  mention  my  wife; 
it  is  the  thought  of  her  that  drives  me  almost  to 
madness!" 

"And  why  not?"  said  I.  "She  must  know  it 
sooner  or  later;  you  cannot  keep  it  long  from  her,  and 
the  intelligence  may  break  upon  her  in  a  more  start 

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58  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

ling  manner,  than  if  imparted  by  yourself;  for  the 
accents  of  those  we  love  soften  the  hardest  tidings. 
Besides,  you  are  depriving  yourself  of  the  comforts 
of  her  sympathy;  and  not  merely  that,  but  also  en- 
dangering the  only  bond  that  can  keep  hearts  together 
— ^an  tmreserved  community  of  thought  and  feeling. 
She  will  soon  perceive  that  something  is  secretly  prey- 
ing upon  your  mind;  and  true  love  will  not  brook 
reserve;  it  feels  undervalued  and  outraged,  when  even 
the  sorrows  of  those  it  loves  are  concealed  from  it." 

"Oh,  but,  my  friend!  to  think  what  a  blow  I  am  to 
give  to  all  her  future  prospects — how  I  am  to  strike 
her  very  soul  to  the  earth,  by  telling  her  that  her 
husband  is  a  beggar — that  she  is  to  forego  all  the 
elegancies  of  life — all  the  pleasures  of  society — to 
shrink  with  me  into  indigence  and  obscurity!  To 
tell  her  that  I  have  dragged  her  down  from  the  sphere 
in  which  she  might  have  continued  to  move  in  con- 
stant brightness — the  light  of  every  eye — the  admira- 
tion of  every  heart! — How  can  she  bear  poverty? 
she  has  been  brought  up  in  all  the  refinements  of 
opulence.  How  can  she  bear  neglect?  she  has  been 
the  idol  of  society.  Oh!  it  will  break  her  heart — ^it 
will  break  her  heart!" 

I  saw  his  grief  was  eloquent,  and  I  let  it  have  its 
flow;  for  sorrow  relieves  itself  by  words.'  When  his 
paroxysm  had  subsided,  and  he  had  relapsed  into 
moody  silence,  I  resumed  the  subject  gently,  and 
urged  him  to  break  his  situation  at  once  to  his  wife. 
He  shook  his  head  moumftdly,  but  positively. 

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THE  WIFE  59 

"But  how  are  you  to  keep  it  from  her?  It  is  neces- 
sary she  should  know  it,  that  you  may  take  the  steps 
proper  to  the  alteration  of  your  circumstances.  You 
must  change  your  style  of  living — ^nay,**  observing  a 
pang  to  pass  across  his  countenance,  "don't  let  that 
aflflict  you.  I  am  sure  you  have  never  placed  your 
happiness  in  outward  show — ^you  have  yet  friends, 
warm  friends,  who  will  not  think  the  worse  of  you 
for  being  less  splendidly  lodged:  and  surely  it  does  not 
require  a  palace  to  be  happy  with  Mary " 

"  I  could  be  happy  with  her, "  cried  he,  convulsively, 
*'in  a  hovel! — I  could  go  down  with  her  into  poverty 
and  the  dust! — I  could — I  could — God  bless  her! — 
God  bless  her!"  cried  he,  bursting  into  a  transport  of 
grief  and  tenderness. 

''And  believe  me,  my  friend,"  said  I,  stepping  up 
and  grasping  him  warmly  by  the  hand,  "believe  me, 
she  can  be  the  same  with  you.  Ay,  more:  it  will  be  a 
source  of  pride  and  triumph  to  her — ^it  wiU  call  forth 
all  the  latent  energies  and  fervent  sympathies  of  her 
nature;  for  she  will  rejoice  to  prove  that  she  loves  you 
for  yourself.  There  is  in  every  true  woman's  heart  a 
spark  of  heavenly  fire,  which  lies  dormant  in  the  broad 
daylight  of  prosperity;  but  which  kindles  up,  and 
beams  and  blazes  in  the  dark  hour  of  adversity.  No 
man  knows  what  the  wife  of  his  bosom  is — no  man 
knows  what  a  ministering  angel  she  is — ^until  he  has 
gone  with  her  through  the  fiery  trials  of  this  world.  •' 

There  was  something  in  the  earnestness  of  my  man- 
ner, and  the  figtirative  style  of  my  language,  that 

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60  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

caught  the  excited  imagination  of  LesKe.  I  knew  the 
auditor  I  had  to  deal  with;  and  following  up  the  im- 
pression I  had  made,  I  finished  by  persuading  him  to 
go  home  and  unburden  his  sad  heart  to  his  wife. 

I  must  confess,  notwithstanding  all  I  had  said,  I 
felt  some  little  solicitude  for  the  result.  Who  can 
calculate  on  the  fortitude  of  one  whose  life  has  been  a 
round  of  pleasures?  Her  gay  spirits  might  revolt  at 
the  dark  downward  path  of  low  humility  suddenly 
pointed  out  before  her,  and  might  cling  to  the  sunny 
regions  in  which  they  had  hitherto  revelled.  Besides, 
ruin  in  fashionable  life  is  accompanied  by  so  many 
galling  mortifications,  to  which  in  other  ranks  it  is  a 
stranger. — In  short,  I  could  not  meet  Leslie  the  next 
morning  without  trepidation.  He  had  made  the 
disclosure. 

"And  how  did  she  bear  it?" 

**Like  an  angel!  It  seemed  rather  to  be  a  relief  to 
her  mind,  for  she  threw  her  arms  round  my  neck,  and 
asked  if  this  was  all  that  had  lately  made  me  un- 
happy.— ^But,  poor  girl,"  added  he,  "she  cannot 
realize  the  change  we  must  undergo.  She  has  no  idea 
of  poverty  but  in  the  abstract;  she  has  only  read  of  it 
in  poetry,  where  it  is  allied  to  love.  She  feels  as  yet 
no  privation;  she  suffers  no  loss  of  accustomed  con- 
veniences nor  elegancies.  When  we  come  practically 
to  experience  its  sordid  cares,  its  paltry  wants,  its 
petty  humiliations — ^then  will  be  the  real  trial. " 

"But,"  said  I,  "now  that  you  have  got  over  the 
severest  task,  that  of  breaking  it  to  her,  the  sooner 

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THE  WIFE  6l 

you  let  the  world  into  the  secret  the  better.  The 
disclosure  may  be  mortifying;  but  then  it  is  a  single 
misery,  and  soon  over:  whereas  you  otherwise  suffer 
it,  in  anticipation,  every  hour  in  the  day.  It  is  not 
poverty  so  much  as  pretence,  that  harasses  a  ruined 
man — ^the  struggle  between  a  proud  mind  and  an  empty 
purse — the  keeping  up  a  hollow  show  that  must  soon 
come  to  an  end.  Have  the  courage  to  appear  poor  and 
you  disarm  poverty  of  its  sharpest  sting."  On  this 
point  I  found  Leslie  perfectly  prepared.  He  had  no 
false  pride  himself,  and  as  to  his  wife,  she  was  only 
anxious  to  conform  to  their  altered  fortunes. 

Some  days  afterwards  he  called  upon  me  in  the 
evening.  He  had  disposed  of  his  dwelling  house,  and 
taken  a  small  cottage  in  the  country,  a  few  miles  from 
town.  He  had  been  busied  all  day  in  sending  out 
furniture.  The  new  establishment  required  few  ar- 
ticles, and  those  of  the  simplest  kind.  All  the  splendid 
furniture  of  his  late  residence  had  been  sold,  excepting 
his  wife's  harp.  That,  he  said,  was  too  closely 
associated  with  the  idea  of  herself;  it  belonged  to 
the  little  story  of  their  loves;  for  some  of  the  sweet- 
est, moments  of  their  courtship  were  those  when 
he  had  leaned  over  that  instrtunent,  and  listened 
to  the  melting  tones  of  her  voice.  I  could  not 
but  smile  at  this  instance  of  romantic  gallantry  in 
a  doting  husband. 

He  was  now  going  out  to  the  cottage,  where  his 
wife  had  been  all  day  superintending  its  arrangement. 
My  feelings  had  become  strongly  interested  in  the 

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62  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

progress  of  this  family  story,  and,  as  it  was  a  fine 
evening,  I  offered  to  accompany  him. 

He  was  wearied  with  the  fatigues  of  the  day,  and, 
as  he  walked  out,  fell  into  a  fit  of  gloomy  musing. 

''Poor  Mary!'*  at  length  broke,  with  a  heavy  sigh, 
from  his  lips. 

"And  what  of  her?*'  asked  I:  "has  anything  hap- 
pened to  her?*' 

"What,**  said  he,  darting  an  impatient  glance,  "is 
it  nothing  to  be  reduced  to  this  paltry  situation — to 
be  caged  in  a  miserable  cottage — to  be  obliged  to  toil 
almost  in  the  menial  concerns  of  her  wretched  habi- 
tation?'* 

"Has  she  then  repined  at  the  change?*' 

"Repined!  she  has  been  nothing  but  sweetness  and 
good  humor.  Indeed,  she  seems  in  better  spirits 
than  I  have  ever  known  her;  she  has  been  to  me  all 
love,  and  tenderness,  and  comfort!" 

' '  Admirable  girl ! ' '  exclaimed  I.  "  You  call  yourself 
poor,  my  friend;  you  never  were  so  rich — you  never 
knew  the  boundless  treasures  of  excellence  you  possess 
in  that  woman." 

"Oh!  but,  my  friend,  if  this  first  meeting  at  the 
cottage  were  over,  I  think  I  could  then  be  comfortable. 
But  this  is  her  first  day  of  real  experience;  she  has  been 
introduced  into  a  humble  dwelling — she  has  been 
employed  all  day  in  arranging  its  miserable  equip- 
ments— she  has,  for  the  first  time,  known  the  fatigues 
of  domestic  employment — she  has,  for  the  first  time, 
looked  round  her  on  a  home  destitute  of  everything 

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THE  WIPE  63 

elegant, — almost  of  everything  convenient;  and  may 
now  be  sitting  down,  exhausted  and  spiritless,  brood- 
ing over  a  prospect  of  future  poverty.  ** 

There  was  a  degree  of  probability  in  this  picture 
that  I  could  not  gainsay,  so  we  walked  on  in 
silence. 

After  turning  from  the  main  road  up  a  narrow  lane, 
so  thickly  shaded  with  forest  trees  as  to  give  it  a 
complete  air  of  seclusion,  we  came  in  sight  of  the  cot- 
tage. It  was  humble  enough  in  its  appearance  for 
the  most  pastoral  poet;  and  yet  it  had  a  pleasing  rural 
look.  A  wild  vine  had  overrun  one  end  with  a  pro- 
fusion of  foliage;  a  few  trees  threw  their  branches 
gracefully  over  it;  and  I  observed  several  pots  of 
flowers  tastefully  disposed  about  the  door,  and  on  the 
grass-plot  in  front.  A  small  wicket  gate  opened 
upon  a  footpath  that  wound  through  some  shrubbery 
to  the  door.  Just  as  we  approached,  we  heard  the 
sound  of  music — Leslie  grasped  my  arm;  we  paused 
and  listened.  It  was  Mary's  voice  singing,  in  a  style 
of  the  most  touching  simplicity,  a  little  air  of  which 
her  husband  was  peculiarly  fond. 

I  felt  Leslie's  hand  tremble  on  my  arm.  He  stepped 
forward  to  hear  more  distinctly.  His  step  made  a 
noise  on  the  gravel  walk.  A  bright  beautiful  face 
glanced  out  at  the  window  and  vanished — a,  light 
footstep  was  heard — and  Mary  came  tripping  forth 
to  meet  us:  she  was  in  a  pretty  rural  dress  of  white; 
a  few  wild  flowers  were  twisted  in  her  fine  hair;  a 
fresh  bloom  was  on  her  cheek;  her  whole  cotmtenance 

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64  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

beamed  with  smiles — I  had  never  seen  her  look  so 
lovely. 

"  My  dear  George,  **  cried  she,  "  I  am  so  glad  you  are 
come!  I  have  been  watching  and  watching  for  you; 
and  running  down  the  lane,  and  looking  out  for  you. 
I  *  ve  set  out*  a  table  under  a  beautiful  tree  behind  the 
cottage;  and  I  Ve  been  gathering  some  of  the  most 
delicious  strawberries,  for  I  know  you  are  fond  of 
them — and  we  have  such  excellent  cream — and  every- 
thing is  so  sweet  and  still  here — Oh!**  said  she,  putting 
her  arm  within  his,  and  looking  up  brightly  in  his 
face,  ''Oh,  we  shall  be  so  happy!" 

Poor  Leslie  was  overcome.  He  caught  her  to  his 
bosom — ^he  folded  his  arms  round  her — ^he  kissed  her 
again  and  again — ^he  cotild  not  speak,  but  the  tears 
gushed  into  his  eyes;  and  he  has  often  assured  me 
that  though  the  world  has  since  gone  prosperously 
with  him,  and  his  life  has,  indeed,  been  a  happy  one, 
yet  never  has  he  experienced  a  moment  of  more 
exquisite  felicity. 


yGoogk 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE 

A  POSTHUMOUS  WRITING  OF  DIEDRICH  KNICKERBOCKER 

By  Woden,  God  of  Saxons, 

From  whence  comes  Wensday,  that  is  Wodensday, 

Truth  is  a  thing  that  ever  I  will  keep 

Unto  thylke  day  in  which  I  creep  into 

My  sepulchre — 

Cartwright. 

[The  following  Tale  was  found  among  the  papers  of  the  late 
Diedrich  Knickerbocker,  an  old  gentleman  of  New  York,  who  was 
very  curious  in  the  Dutch  history  of  the  province,  and  the  man- 
ners of  the  descendants  from  its  primitive  settlers.  His  historical 
researches,  however,  did  not  lie  so  much  among  books  as  among 
men;  for  the  former  are  lamentably  scanty  on  his  favorite  topics; 
whereas  he  found  the  old  burghers,  and  still  more  their  wives, 
rich  in  that  legendary  lore,  so  invaluable  to  true  history.  When- 
ever, therefore,  he  happened  upon  a  genuine  Dutch  family, 
snugly  shut  up  in  its  low-roofed  farmhouse,  tmder  a  spreading 
sycamore,  he  looked  upon  it  as  a  little  clasped  volume  of  black- 
letter,  and  studied  it  with  the  zeal  of  a  bookworm. 

The  result  of  all  these  researches  wa<5  a  history  of  the  province 
during  the  reign  of  the  Dutch  governors,  which  he  published  some 
years  since.  There  have  been  various  opinions  as  to  the  literary 
character  of  his  work,  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  it  is  not  a  whit  better 
than  it  should  be.  Its  chief  merit  is  its  scrupulous  accuracy, 
which  indeed  was  a  little  questioned  on  its  first  appearance, 
but  has  since  been  completely  established;  and  it  is  now  ad- 
mitted into  all  historical  collections,  as  a  book  of  unquestionable 
authority. 

I  65 


yGoogk 


66  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

The  old  gentleman  died  shortly  after  the  publication  of  his 
work,  and  now  that  he  is  dead  and  gone,  it  cannot  do  much  harm 
to  his  memory  to  say  that  his  time  might  have  been  much  better 
employed  in  weightier  labors.  He,  however,  was  apt  to  ride 
his  hobby  his  own  way;  and  though  it  did  now  and  then  kicif  up 
the  dust  a  little  in  the  eyes  of  his  neighbors,  and  grieve  the  spirit 
of  some  friends,  for  whom  he  felt  the  truest  deference  and  affec- 
tion; yet  his  errors  and  follies  are  remembered  "more  in  sorrow 
than  in  anger,"  and  it  begins  to  be  suspected  that  he  never 
intended  to  injure  or  offend.  But  however  his  memory  may  be 
appreciated  by  critics,  it  is  still  held  dear  by  many  folks,  whose 
good  opinion  is^  well  worth  having;  particularly  by  certain  bis- 
cuit-bakers, who  have  gone  so  far  as  to  imprint  his  likeness  on 
their  new-year  cakes;  and  have  thus  given  him  a  chance  for  im- 
mortality, almost  equal  to  the  being  stamped  on  a  Waterloo 
Medal,  or  a  Queen  Anne's  Farthing.]  ^ 


Whoever  has  made  a  voyage  up  the  Hudson  must 
remember  the  Kaatskill  Mountains.^  They  are  a 
dismembered  branch  of  the  great  Appalachian  family, 
and  are  seen  away  to  the  west  of  the  river,  swelling 
up  to  a  noble  height,  and  lording  it  over  the  surround- 
ing country.  Every  change  of  season,  every  change 
of  weather,  indeed,  every  hour  of  the  day,  produces 
some  change  in  the  magical  hues  and  shapes  of  these 
mountains,  and  they  are  regarded  by  all  the  good 
wives,  far  and  near,  as  perfect  barometers.  When  the 
weather  is  fair  and  settled,  they  are  clothed  in  blue 
and  purple,  and  print  their  bold  outlines  on  the  clear 
evening  sky;  but,  sometimes,  when  the  rest  of  the 
landscape  is  cloudless,  they  will  gather  a  hood  of 
firay  vapors  about  their  summits,  which  in  the  last 


yGoogk 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE  67 

rays  of  the  setting  sun,  will  glow  and  light  up  like  a 
crown  of  glory. 

At  the  foot  of  these  fairy  mountains,  the  voyager 
may  have  descried  the  light  smoke  curling  up  from 
a  village, '  whose  shingle-roofs  gleam  among  the  trees, 
just  where  the  blue  tints  of  the  upland  melt  away  into 
the  fresh  green  of  the  nearer  landscape.  It  is  a  little 
village  of  great  antiquity,  having  been  founded  by 
some  of  the  Dutch  colonists,  in  the  early  times  of  the 
province,  just  about  the  beginning  of  the  government 
of  the  good  Peter  Stuyvesant  (may  he  rest  in  peace!), 
and  there  were  some  of  the  houses  of  the  original 
settlers  standing  within  a  few  years,  built  of  small 
yellow  bricks  brought  from  Holland,  having  latticed 
windows  and  gable  fronts,  surmounted  with  weather- 
cocks. 

In  that  same  village,  and  in  one  of  these  very  houses 
(which,  to  tell  the  precise  truth,  was  sadly  time-worn 
and  weather-beaten),  there  lived  many  years  since, 
while  the  country  was  yet  a  province  of  Great  Britain, 
a  simple  good-natured  fellow  of  the  name  of  Rip  Van 
Winkle.  He  was  a  descendant  of  the  Van  Winkles 
who  figured  so  gallantly  in  the  chivalrous  days  of 
Peter  Stuyvesant,  and  accompanied  him  to  the  siege 
of  Fort  Christina.^  He  inherited,  however,  but  little 
of  the  martial  character  of  his  ancestors.  I  have 
observed  that  he  was  a  simple  good-natured  man;  he 
was,  moreover,  a  kind  neighbor,  and  an  obedient 
henpecked  husband.  Indeed,  to  the  latter  circum- 
stance might  be  owing  that  meekness  of  spirit  which . 

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68  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

gained  him  such  universal  popularity;  for  those  men 
are  most  apt  to  be  obsequious  and  conciliating  abroad, 
who  are  under  the  discipline  of  shrews  at  home.  Their 
tempers,  doubtless,  are  rendered  pliant  and  malle- 
able in  the  fiery  furnace  of  domestic  tribulation;  and  a 
curtain  lecture  is  worth  all  the  sermons  in  the  world 
for  teaching  the  virtues  of  patience  and  long-suffer- 
ing. A  termagant  wife  may,  therefore,  in  some  re- 
spects, be  considered  a  tolerable  blessing;  and  if  so, 
Rip  Van  Winkle  was  thrice  blessed. 

Certain  it  is,  that  he  was  a  great  favorite  among  all 
the  good  wives  of  the  village,  who,  as  usual  with  the 
amiable  sex,  took  his  part  in  all  family  squabbles; 
and  never  failed,  whenever  they  talked  those  matters 
over  in  their  evening  gossipings,  to  lay  all  the  blame  on 
Dame  Van  Winkle.  The  children  of  the  village,  too, 
would  shout  with  joy  whenever  he  approached.  He 
assisted  at  their  sports,  made  their  playthings,  taught 
them  to  fly  kites  and  shoot  marbles,  and  told  them 
long  stories  of  ghosts,  witches,  and  Indians.  When- 
ever he  went  dodging  about  the  village,  he  was  sur- 
rounded by  a  troop  of  them,  hanging  on  his  skirts, 
clambering  on  his  back,  and  playing  a  thousand  tricks 
on  him  with  impunity;  and  not  a  dog  would  bark  at 
him  throughout  the  neighborhood. 

The  great  error  in  Rip's  composition  was  an  insuper- 
able aversion  to  all  kinds  of  profitable  labor.  It  could 
not  be  from  the  want  of  assiduity  or  perseverance; 
for  he  would  sit  on  a  wet  rock,  with  a  rod  as  long  and 
heavy  as  a  Tartar's  lance,  and  fish  all  day  without  a 

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RIP  VAN  WINKLE  69 

murmur,  even  though  he  should  not  be  encouraged 
by  a  single  nibble.  He  would  carry  a  fowling-piece 
on  his  shoulder  for  hours  together,  trudging  through 
woods  and  swamps,  and  up  hill  and  down  dale,  to 
shoot  a  few  squirrels  or  wild  pigeons.  He  would 
never  refuse  to  assist  a  neighbor  even  in  the  roughest 
toil,  and  was  a  foremost  man  at  all  country  frolics  for 
husking'  Indian  com,  or  building  stone-fences;  the 
women  of  the  village,  too,  used  to  employ  him  to  run 
their  errands,  and  to  do  such  little  odd  jobs  as  their 
less  obliging  husbands  would  not  do  for  them.  In  a 
word  Rip  was  ready  to  attend  to  anybody's  business 
but  his  own;  but  as  to  doing  family  duty,  and  keep-^ 
ing  his  farm  in  order,  he  found  it  impossible. 

In  fact,  he  declared  it  was  of  no  use  to  work  on  his 
farm;  it  was  the  most  pestilent  little  piece  of  ground 
m  the  whole  country;  everything  about  it  went  wrong, 
jind  would  go  wrong,  in  spite  of  him.  His  fences 
<jvere  continually  falling  to  pieces;  his  cow  would 
either  go  astray,  or  get  among  the  cabbages;  weeds 
were  sure  to  grow  quicker  in  his  fields  than  anywhere 
else;  the  rain  always  made  a  point  of  setting  in  just 
as  he  had  some  out-door  work  to  do;  so  that  though 
his  patrimonial  estate  had  dwindled  away  under  his 
management,  acre  by  acre,  until  there  was  little 
more  left  than  a  mere  patch  of  Indian  com  and 
potatoes,  yet  it  was  the  worst  conditioned  farm  in 
the  neighborhood. 

His  children,  too,  were  as  ragged  and  wild  as  if 
they  belonged  to  nobody.     His  son  Rip,  an  urchin 

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70  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

begotten  in  his  own  likeness,  promised  to  inherit  the 
habits,  with  the  old  clothes  of  his  father.'  He  was 
generally  seen  trooping  like  a  colt  at  his  mother's  heels, 
equipped  in  a  pair  of  his  father's  cast-off  galligaskins, 
which  he  had  much  ado  to  hold  up  with  one  hand,  as  a 
fine  lady  does  her  train  in  bad  weather. 

Rip  Van  Winkle,  however,  was  one  of  those  happy 
mortals,  of  foolish,  well-oiled  dispositions,  who  take 
the  world  easy,  eat  white  bread  or  brown,  whichever 
can  be  got  with  least  thought  or  trouble,  and  would 
rather  starve  on  a  penny  than  work  for  a  pound.  If 
left  to  himself,  he  would  have  whistled  life  away  in 
perfect  contentment;  but  his  wife  kept  continually 
dinning  in  his  ears  about  his  idleness,  his  carelessness, 
and  the  ruin  he  was  bringing  on  his  family.  Morning, 
noon,  and  night,  her  tongue  was  incessantly  going,  and 
everything  he  said  or  did  was  sure  to  produce  a  torrent 
of  household  eloquence.  Rip  had  but  one  way  of 
replying  to  all  lectures  of  the  kind,  and  that,  by  fre- 
quent use,  had  grown  into  a  habit.  He  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  shook  his  head,  cast  up  his  eyes,  but  said 
nothing.  This,  however,  always  provoked  a  fresh 
volley  from  his  wife;  so  that  he  was  fain  to  draw  off 
his  forces,  and  take  to  the  outside  of  the  house — the 
only  side  which,  in  truth,  belongs  to  a  henpecked 
husband. 

Rip's  sole  domestic  adherent  was  his  dog  Wolf, 
who  was  as  much  henpecked  as  his  master;  for  Dame 
Van  Winkle  regarded  them  as  companions  in  idleness, 
and  even  looked  upon  Wolf  with  an  evil  eye,  as  the 

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RIP  VAN  WINKLE  71 

cause  of  his  master's  going  so  often  astray.  True  it 
is,  in  all  points  of  spirit  befitting  an  honorable  dog, 
he  was  as  courageous  an  animal  as  ever  scoured  the 
woods — ^but  what  courage  can  withstand  the  ever- 
during  and  all-besetting  terrors  of  a  woman's  tongue? 
The  moment  Wolf  entered  the  house  his  crest  fell, 
his  tail  drooped  to  the  ground,  or  curled  between  his 
legs,  he  sneaked  about  with  a  gallows  air,  casting 
many  a  sidelong  glance  at  Dame  Vaii  Winkle,  and  at 
the  least  flourish  of  a  broomstick  or  ladle,  he  would 
fly  to  the  door  with  yelping  precipitation. 

Times  grew  worse  and  worse  with  Rip  Van  Winkle 
as  years  of  matrimony  rolled  on;  a  tart  temper  never 
mellows  with  age,  and  a  sharp  tongue  is  the  only  edged 
tool  that  grows  keener  with  constant  use.  For  a  long 
while  he  used  to  console  himself,  when  driven  from 
home,  by  frequenting  a  kind  of  perpetual  club  of  the 
sages, '  philosophers,  and  other  idle  personages  of  the 
village;  which  held  its  sessions  on  a  bench  before  a 
small  inn,  designated  by  a  rubicund  portrait  of  His 
Majesty  George  the  Third.  Here  they  used  to  sit 
in  the  shade  through  a  long  lazy  summer's  day, 
talking  listlessly  over  village  gossip,  or  telling  endless 
sleepy  stories  about  nothing.  But  it  would  have  been 
worth  any  statesman's  money  to  have  heard  the  pro- 
found discussions  that  sometimes  took  place,  when  by 
chance  an  old  newspaper  fell  into  their  hands  from 
some  passing  traveller.  How  solemnly  they  wrould 
listen  to  the  contents,  as  drawled  out  by  Derrick  Van 
Bummel,  the  schoolmaster,  a  dapper  learned  Httle 

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7«  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

maiit  who  was  not  to  be  daunted  by  the  most  gigantic 
word  in  the  dictionary;  and  how  sagely  they  would 
deliberate  upon  public  events  some  months  after  they 
had  taken  place. 

The  opinions  of  this  jtmto  were  completely  con- 
trolled by  Nicholas  Vedder,  a  patriarch  of  the  village, 
and  landlord  of  the  inn,  at  the  door  of  which  he  took 
his  seat  from  morning  till  night,  just  moving  suffi- 
ciently to  avoid  the  sun  and  keep  in  the  shade  of  a 
large  tree;  so  that  the  neighbors  could  tell  the  hour  by 
his  movements  as  accurately  as  by  a  sun-dial.  It  is 
true  he  was  rarely  heard  to  speak,  but  smoked  his 
pipe  incessantly.  His  adherents,  however  (for  every 
great  man  has  his  adherents),  perfectly  understood 
him,  and  knew  how  to  gather  his  opinions.  When  any- 
thing that  was  read  or  related  displeased  him,  he 
was  observed  to  smoke  his  pipe  vehemently,  and  to 
send  forth  short,  frequent,  and  angry  ptiflfs;  but 
when  pleased,  he  would  inhale  the  smoke  slowly 
and  tranquilly,  and  emit  it  in  light  and  placid  clouds; 
and  sometimes,  taking  the  pipe  from  his  mouth, 
and  letting  the  fragrant  vapor  curl  about  his  nose, 
would  gravely  nod  his  head  in  token  of  perfect 
approbation.' 

From  even  this  stronghold  the  unlucky  Rip  was  at 
length  routed  by  his  termagant  wife,  who  would  sud- 
denly break  in  upon  the  tranquillity  of  the  assemblage 
and  call  the  members  all  to  naught;  nor  was  that 
august  personage,  Nicholas  Vedder  himself,  sacred 
from  the  daring  tongue  of  this  terrible  virago,  who 

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RIP  VAN  WINKLE  73 

charged  him  outright  with  encotiraging  her  husband 
in  habits  of  idleness. 

Poor  Rip  was  at  last  reduced  almost  to  despair;  and 
his  only  alternative,  to  escape  from  the  labor  of  the 
farm  and  clamor  of  his  wife,  was  to  take  gun  in  hand 
and  stroll  away  into  the  woods.  Here  he  would  some- 
times seat  himself  at  the  foot  of  a  tree,  and  share  the 
contents  of  his  wallet  with  Wolf,  with  whom  he  sym- 
pathized as  a  fellow-sufferer  in  persecution.  "Poor 
Wolf,"  he  would  say,  **thy  mistress  leads  thee  a 
dog's  life  of  it;  but  never  mind,  my  lad,  whilst  I 
live  thou  shalt  never  want  a  friend  to  stand  by 
thee!"  Wolf  would  wag  his  tail,  look  wistfully  in 
his  master's  face,  and  if  dogs  can  feel  pity  I  verily 
believe  he  reciprocated  the  sentiment  with  all  his 
heart. 

In  a  long  ramble  of  the  kind  on  a  fine  autumnal  day, 
Rip  had  unconsciously  scrambled  to  one  of  the  highest 
parts  of  the  Kaatskill  Mountains.  He  was  after  his 
favorite  sport  of  squirrel  shooting,  and  the  still  soli- 
tudes had  echoed  and  re-echoed  with  the  reports  of 
his  gun.  Panting  and  fatigued,  he  threw  himself, 
late  in  the  afternoon,  on  a  green  knoll,  covered  with 
mountain  herbage,  that  crowned  the  brow  of  a  pre- 
cipice. From  an  opening  between  the  trees  he  could 
overlook  all  the  lower  country  for  many  a  mile  of 
rich  woodland.  He  saw  at  a  distance  the  lordly 
Hudson,  far,  far  below  him,  moving  on  its  silent  but 
majestic  course,  with  the  reflection  of  a  purple  cloud, 
or  the  sail  of  a  lagging  bark,  here  and  there  sleeping 

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74  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

on  its  glassy  bosom,  and  at  last  losing  itself  in  the 
blue  highlands. 

On  the  other  side  he  looked  down  into  a  deep  moun- 
tain glen,  wild,  lonely,  and  shagged,  the  bottom  filled 
with  fragments  from  the  impending  cliffs,  and  scarcely 
lighted  by  the  reflected  rays  of  the  setting  sun.  For 
some  time  Rip  lay  musing  on  this  scene;  evening  was 
gradually  advancing;  the  mountains  began  to  throw 
their  long  blue  shadows  over  the  valleys;  he  saw  that 
it  would  be  dark  long  before  he  could  reach  the  village, 
and  he  heaved  a  heavy  sigh  when  he  thought  of  en- 
countering the  terrors  of  Dame  Van  Winkle. 

As  he  was  about  to  descend,  he  heard  a  voice  from  a 
distance,  hallooing,  ''Rip  Van  Winkle!  Rip  Van 
Winkle!"  He  looked  round,  but  could  see  nothing 
but  a  crow  winging  its  solitary  flight  across  the  moun- 
tain. He  thought  his  fancy  must  have  deceived  him, 
and  turned  again  to  descend,  when  he  heard  the  same 
cry  ring  through  the  still  evening  air:  ''Rip  Van  Win- 
kle! Rip  Van  Winkle!*' — at  the  same  time  Wolf 
bristled  up  his  back,  and  giving  a  low  growl,  skulked 
to  his  master's  side,  looking  fearfully  down  into  the 
glen.  Rip  now  felt  a  vague  apprehension  stealing 
over  him;  he  looked  anxiously  in  the  same  direction, 
and  perceived  a  strange  figure  slowly  toiling  up  the 
rocks,  and  bending  under  the  weight  of  something  he 
carried  on  his  back.  He  was  surprised  to  see  any 
human  being  in  this  lonely  and  unfrequented  place, 
but  supposing  it  to  be  some  one  of  the  neighborhood 
in  need  of  his  assistance,  he  hastened  down  to  yield  it. 

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RIP  VAN  WINKLE  75 

On  nearer  approach  he  was  still  more  surprised  at  the 
singtilarity  of  the  stranger's  appearance.  He  was  a 
short  square-built  old  fellow,  with  thick  bushy  hair, 
and  a  grizzled  beard.  His  dress  was  of  the  antique 
Dutch  fashion — a  cloth  jerkin  strapped  round  the 
waist — several  pair  of  breeches,  the  outer  one  of  ample 
volume,  decorated  with  rows  of  buttons  down  the 
sides,  and  bunches  at  the  knees.  He  bore  on  his 
shoulder  a  stout  keg,  that  seemed  full  of  liquor,  and 
made  signs  for  Rip  to  approach  and  assist  him  with 
the  load.  Though  rather  shy  and  distrustful  of  this 
new  acquaintance.  Rip  complied  with  his  usual 
alacrity;  and  mutually  relieving  one  another,  they 
clambered  up  a  narrow  gully,  apparently  the  dry  bed 
of  a  mountain  torrent.  As  they  ascended,  Rip  every 
now  and  then  heard  long  rolling  peals,  like  distant 
thunder,  that  seemed  to  issue  out  of  a  deep  ravine,  or 
rather  cleft,  between  lofty  rocks,  toward  which  their 
rugged  path  conducted.  He  paused  for  an  instant, 
but  supposing  it  to  be  the  muttering  of  one  of  those 
transient  thunder-showers  which  often  take  place  in 
mountain  heights,  he  proceeded.  Passing  through 
the  ravine,  they  came  to  a  hollow,  like  a  small  amphi- 
theatre, surrounded  by  perpendicular  precipices,  over 
the  brinks  of  which  impending  trees  shot  their  branches 
so  that  you  only  caught  glimpses  of  the  aztire  sky  and 
the  bright  evening  cloud.  During  the  whole  time  Rip 
and  his  companion  had  labored  on  in  silence;  for 
though  the  former  marvelled  greatly  what  could  be 
the  object  of  c^rying  a  keg  of  liquor  up  this  wild 

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76  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

mountain,  yet  there  was  something  strange  and  in- 
comprehensible about  the  unknown,  that  inspired  awe 
and  checked  familiarity. 

On  entering  the  amphitheatre,  new  objects  of 
wonder  presented  themselves.  On  a  level  spot  in  the 
centre  was  a  company  of  odd-looking  personages 
playing  at  ninepins.  They  were  dressed  in  a  quaint 
outlandish  fashion;  some  wore  short  doublets,  others 
jerkins,  with  long  knives  in  their  belts,  and  most  of 
them  had  enormous  breeches,  of  similar  style  with 
that  of  the  guide's.  Their  visages,  too,  were  peculiar: 
one  had  a  large  beard,  broad  face,  and  small  piggish 
eyes:  the  face  of  another  seemed  to  consist  entirely 
of  nose,  and  was  surmounted  by  a  white  sugar-loaf 
hat  set  off  with  a  little  red  cock's  tail.  They  all  had 
beards,  of  various  shapes  and  colors.  There  was  one 
who  seemed  to  be  the  commander.  He  was  a  stout 
old  gentleman,  with  a  weather-beaten  countenance; 
he  wore  a  laced  doublet,  broad  belt  and  hanger,  high- 
crowned  hat  and  feather,  red  stockings,  and  high- 
heeled  shoes,  with  roses  in  them.  The  whole  group 
reminded  Rip  of  the  figures  in  an  old  Flemish  painting, 
in  the  parlor  of  Dominie  Van  Shaick,  the  village  par- 
son, and  which  had  been  brought  over  from  Holland 
at  the  time  of  the  settlement. 

What  seemed  particularly  odd  to  Rip  was,  that 
though  these  folks  were  evidently  amusing  themselves, 
yet  they  maintained  the  gravest  faces,  the  most 
mysterious  silence,  and  were,  withal,  the  most  melan- 
choly party  of  pleasure  he  had  ever  witnessed.    Noth- 

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RIP  VAN  WINKLE  77 

ing  interrupted  the  stillness  of  the  scene  but  the  noise 
of  the  balls,  which,  whenever  they  were  rolled,  echoed 
along  the  mountains  like  rumbling  peals  of  thunder. 

As  Rip  and  his  companion  approached  them,  they 
suddenly  desisted  from  their  play,  and  stared  at  him 
with  such  fixed  statue-like  gaze,  and  such  strange, 
uncouth,  lack-lustre  countenances,  that  his  heart 
turned  within  him,  and  his  knees  smote  together. 
His  companion  now  emptied  the  contents  of  the  keg 
into  large  flagons,  and  made  signs  to  him  to  wait 
upon  the  company.  He  obeyed  with  fear  and  trem- 
bling; they  quaffed  the  liquor  in  profound  silence,  and 
then  returned  to  their  game. 

By  degrees  Rip's  awe  and  apprehension  subsided. 
He  even  ventured,  when  no  eye  was  fixed  upon  him, 
to  taste  the  beverage,  which  he  found  had  much  of 
the  flavor  of  excellent  Hollands.  He  was  naturally 
a  thirsty  soul,  and  was  soon  tempted  to  repeat  the 
draught.  One  taste  provoked  another;  and  he  re- 
iterated his  visits  to  the  flagon  so  often  that  at  length 
his  senses  were  overpowered,  his  eyes  swam  in  his 
head,  his  head  gradually  declined,  and  he  fell  into  a 
deep  sleep. 

On  waking,  he  found  himself  on  the  green  knoll 
whence  he  had  first  seen  the  old  man  of  the  glen.  He 
rubbed  his  eyes — ^it  was  a  bright  sunny  morning.  The 
birds  were  hopping  and  twittering  among  the  bushes, 
and  the  eagle  was  wheeling  aloft,  and  breasting  the 
pure  mountain  breeze.  ''Surely,"  thought  Rip,  "I 
have  not  slept  here  all  night. "    He  recalled  the  occur- 

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78  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

rences  before  he  fell  asleep.  The  strange  man  with 
a  keg  of  liquor — the  mountain  ravine — ^the  wild  retreat 
among  the  rocks — ^the^woe-begone  party  at  nine-pins 
— ^the  flagon — '*0h!  that  flagon!  that  wicked  flagon!" 
thought  Rip — ''what  excuse  shall  I  make  to  Dame 
Van  Winkle!" 

He  looked  round  for  his  gun,  but  in  place  of  the 
clean  well-oiled  fowling-piece,  he  found  an  old  fire- 
lock lying  by  him,  the  barrel  incrusted  with  rust,  the 
lock  falling  off*,  and  the  stock  worm-eaten.  He  now 
suspected  that  the  grave  roysters'  of  the  mountain 
had  put  a  trick  upon  him,  and,  having  dosed  him  with 
liquor,  had  robbed  him  of  his  gun.  Wolf,  too,  had 
disappeared,  but  he  might  have  strayed  away  after  a 
squirrel  or  partridge.  He  whistled  after  him  and 
shouted  his  name,  but  all  in  vain;  the  echoes  re- 
peated his  whistle  and  shout,  but  no  dog  was  to  be 
seen. 

He  determined  to  revisit  the  scene  of  the  last 
evening's  gambol,  and  if  he  met  with  any  of  the  party, 
to  demand  his  dog  and  gim.  As  he  rose  to  walk,  he 
found  himself  stiff  in  the  joints,  and  wanting  in  his 
usual  activity.  "These  mountain  beds  do  not  agree 
with  me,"  thought  Rip,  **and  if  this  frolic  should  lay 
me  up  with  a  fit  of  the  rheumatism,  I  shall  have  a 
blessed  time  with  Dame  Van  Winkle."  With  some 
difficulty  he  got  down  into  the  glen :  he  found  the  gully 
up  which  he  and  his  companion  had  ascended  the 
preceding  evening ;  but  to  his  astonishment  a  motmtain 
ctream  was  now  foaming  down  it,  leaping  from  rock 

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RIP  VAN  WINKLE  79 

to  rock,  and  filling  the  glen  with  babbling  murmurs. 
He,  however,  made  shift  to  scramble  up  its  sides, 
working  his  toilsome  way  through  thickets  of  birch, 
sassafras,  and  witch-hazel,  and  sometimes  tripped  up 
or  entangled  by  the  wild  grapevines  that  twisted  their 
coils  or  tendrils  from  tree  to  tree,  and  spread  a  kind 
of  network  in  his  path. 

At  length  he  reached  to  where  the  ravine  had 
opened  through  the  cliffs  to  the  amphitheatre;  but  nc^ 
traces  of  such  opening  remained.  The  rocks  presented 
a  high  impenetrable  wall  over  which  the  torrent  came 
tumbling  in  a  sheet  of  feathery  foam,  and  fell  into  a 
broad  deep  basin,  black  from  the  shadows  of  the 
surrounding  forest.  Here,  then,  poor  Rip  was  brought 
to  a  stand.  He  again  called  and  whistled  after  his 
dog;  he  was  only  answered  by  the  cawing  of  a  flock 
of  idle  crows,  sporting  high  in  air  about  a  dry  tree 
that  overhung  a  sunny  precipice;  and  who,  secure  in 
their  elevation,  seemed  to  look  down  and  scoflE  at 
the  poor  man's  perplexities.  What  was  to  be  done? 
the  morning  was  passing  away,  and  Rip  felt  famished 
for  want  of  his  breakfast.  He  grieved  to  give  up 
his  dog  and  gun;  he  dreaded  to  meet  his  wife;  but  it 
would  not  do  to  starve  among  the  mountains.  He 
shook  his  head,  shouldered  the  rusty  firelock,  and, 
with  a  heart  full  of  trouble  and  anxiety,  turned  his 
steps  homeward. 

As  he  approached  the  village  he  met  a  number  of 
X)eopk,  but  none  whom  he  knew,  which  somewhat 
fiwn^sed  him,  for  he  had  thought  himself  acquainted 

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8o  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

with  every  one  in  the  country  round.  Their  dress, 
too,  was  of  a  different  fashion  from  that  to  which  he 
was  accustomed.  They  all  stared  at  him  with  equal 
marks  of  surprise,  and  whenever  they  cast  their  eyes 
upon  him,  invariably  stroked  their  chins.  The  con- 
stant recurrence  of  this  gesture  induced  Rip,  invol- 
imtarily,  to  do  the  same,  when,  to  his  astonishment, 
he  found  his  beard  had  grown  a  foot  long  I 

He  had  now  entered  the  skirts  of  the  village.  A 
troop  of  strange  children  ran  at  his  heels,  hooting 
after  him,  and  pointing  at  his  gray  beard.  The  dogs, 
too,  not  one  of  which  he  recognized  for  an  old  acquain- 
tance, barked  at  him  as  he  passed.  The  very  village 
was  altered;  it  was  larger  and  more  populous.  There 
were  rows  of  houses  which  he  had  never  seen  before, 
and  those  which  had  been  his  familiar  haunts  had 
disappeared.  Strange  names  were  over  the  doors — 
strange  faces  at  the  windows — everything  was  strange. 
His  mind  now  misgave  him ;  he  began  to  doubt  whether 
both  he  and  the  world  arotmd  him  were  not  bewitched. 
Surely  this  was  his  native  village,  which  he  had  left 
but  the  day  before.  There  stood  the  Kaatskill  Motm- 
tains — there  ran  the  silver  Hudson  at  a  distance — 
there  was  every  hill  and  dale  precisely  as  it  had  always 
been — Rip  was  sorely  perplexed — "That  flagon  last 
night,  '*  thought  he,  ''has  addled  my  poor  head  sadly ! " 

It  was  with  some  difficulty  that  he  found  the  way 
to  his  own  house,  which  he  approached  with  silent 
awe,  expecting  every  moment  to  hear  the  shrill  voice 
of  Dame  Van  Winkle.    He  found  the  house  gone  to 

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RIP  VAN  WINKLE  8l 

decay — the  roof  fallen  in,  the  windows  shattered,  and 
the  doors  off  the  hinges.  A  hsdf-starved  dog  that 
looked  like  Wolf  was  skulking  about  it.  Rip  called 
him  by  name,  but  the  cur  snarled,  showed  his  teeth, 
and  passed  on.  This  was  an  unkind  cut  indeed — 
"My  very  dog,"  sighed  poor  Rip,  "has  forgotten 
me!" 

He  entered  the  house,  which,  to  tell  the  truth, 
Dame  Van  Winkle  had  sdways  kept  in  neat  order.  It 
was  empty,  forlorn,  and  apparently  abandoned. 
This  desolateness  overcame  sdl  his  connubial  fears — 
he  called  loudly  for  his  wife  and  children — the  lonely 
chambers  rang  for  a  moment  with  his  voice,  and  then 
all  again  was  silence. 

He  now  hurried  forth,  and  hastened  to  his  old 
resort,  the  village  inn — but  it  too  was  gone.  A  large 
rickety  wooden  building  stood  in  its  place,  with  great 
gaping  windows,  some  of  them  broken  and  mended 
with  old  hats  and  petticoats,  and  over  the  door  was 
painted,  "the  Union  Hotel,  by  Jonathan  Doolittle." 
Instead  of  the  great  tree  that  used  to  shelter  the  quiet 
little  Dutch  inn  of  yore,  there  now  was  reared  a  tall 
naked  pole,  with  something  on  the  top  that  looked 
Hke  a  red  night-cap,  and  from  it  was-  fluttering  a  flag, 
on  which  was  a  singular  assemblage  of  stars  and  stripes 
— all  this  was  strange  and  incomprehensible.  He 
recognized  on  the  sign,  however,  the  ruby  face  of 
King  George,  under  which  he  had  smoked  so  many  a 
peaceful  pipe;  but  even  this  was  singularly  metamor- 
phosed.    The  red  coat  was  changed  for  one  of  blue  and 

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82  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

buff,  a  sword  was  held  in  the  hand  instead  of  a  sceptre, 
the  head  was  decorated  with  a  cocked  hat,  and  under- 
neath was  painted  in  large  characters,  General 
Washington. 

There  was,  as  usual,  a  crowd  of  folk  about  the  door, 
but  none  that  Rip  recollected.  The  very  character 
of  the  people  seemed  changed.  There  was  a  busy, 
bustling,  disputatious  tone  about  it,  instead  of  the 
accustomed  phlegm  and  drowsy  tranquillity.  He 
looked  in  vaiij  for  the  sage  Nicholas  Vedder,  with  his 
broad  face,  double  chin,  and  fair  long  pipe,  uttering 
clouds  of  tobacco-smoke  instead  of  idle  speeches;  or 
Van  Bummel,  the  schoolmaster,  doling  forth  the  con- 
tents of  an  ancient  newspaper.  In  place  of  these,  a 
lean,  bilious-looking  fellow,  with  his  pockets  full  of 
handbills,  was  haranguing  vehemently  about  rights 
of  citizens — elections — ^members  of  congress — ^liberty 
— Bunker's  Hill — ^heroes  of  seventy-six — and  other 
words,  which  were  a  perfect  Babylonish  jargon^  to  the 
bewildered  Van  Winkle. 

The  appearance  of  Rip,  with  his  long  grizzled  beard, 
his  rusty  fowling-piece,  his  uncouth  dress,  and  an 
army  of  women  and  children  at  his  heels,  soon  at- 
tracted the  attention  of  the  tavern  politicians.  They 
crowded  round  him,  eyeing  him  from  head  to  foot 
with  great  curiosity.  The  orator  bustled  up  to  him, 
and,  drawing  him  partly  aside,  inqtiired  *'on  which 
side  he  voted?"  Rip  stared  in  vacant  stupidity. 
Another  short  but  busy  little  fellow  pulled  him  by 
the  arm,  and,  rising   on  tiptoe,  inquired  in  his  ear, 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE  83 

"whether  he  was  Federal  or  Democrat?**  Rip  was 
equally  at  a  loss  to  comprehend  the  question;  when  a 
knowing,  self-important  old  gentleman,  in  a  sharp 
cocked  hat,  made  his  way  through  the  crowd,  put- 
ting them  to  the  right  and  left  with  his  elbows  as 
he  passed,  and  planting  himself  before  Van  Winkle, 
with  one  arm  akimbo,  the  other  resting  on  his  cane, 
his  keen  eyes  and  sharp  hat  penetrating,  as  it  were, 
into  his  very  soul,  demanded  in  an  austere  tone, 
''what  brought  him  to  the  election  with  a  gun  on  his 
shoulder,  and  a  mob  at  his  heels,  and  whether  he 
meant  to  breed  a  riot  in  the  village?** — ''Alas!  gen- 
tlemen,** cried  Rip,  somewhat  dismayed,  "I  am  a 
poor  quiet  man,  a  native  of  the  place,  and  a  loyal 
subject  of  the  king,  God  bless  him!** 

Here  a  general  shout  burst  from  the  bystanders — 
"A  tory!  a  tory!  a  spy!  a  refugee!  hustle  him!  away 
with  him!**  It  was  with  great  difficulty  that  the 
self-important  man  in  the  cocked  hat  restored  order; 
and,  having  assumed  a  tenfold  austerity  of  brow, 
demanded  again  of  the  unknown  culprit,  what  he 
came  there  for,  and  whom  he  was  seeking.  The  poor 
man  humbly  assured  him  that  he  meant  no  harm, 
but  merely  came  there  in  search  of  some  of  his  neigh- 
bors, who  used  to  keep  about  the  tavern. 

"Well — who  are  they? — name  them.** 

Rip  bethought  himself  a  moment,  and  inquired, 
"  Where  *s  Nicholas  Vedder ?  *' 

There  was  a  silence  for  a  little  while,  when  an  old 
man  replied,  in  a  thin  piping  voice,  "Nicholas  Vedder! 

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«4  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

why,  he  is  dead  and  gone  these  eighteen  years !  There 
was  a  wooden  tombstone  in  the  churchyard  that 
used  to  tell  all  about  him,  but  that  's  rotten  and 
gone  too. " 

'*  Where  's  Brom  Butcher?" 

'*  Oh,  he  went  oflE  to  the  army  in  the  beginning  of  the 
war;  some  say  that  he  was  killed  at  the  storming  of 
Stony  Point — others  say  he  was  drowned  in  a  squall 
at  the  foot  of  Anthony's  Nose.'  I  don't  know — ^he 
never  came  back  again." 

'* Where  's  Van  Btunmel,  the  schoolmaster?" 

'*He  went  oflf  to  the  wars,  too,  was  a  great  militia 
general,  and  is  now  in  congress."^ 

Rip's  heart  died  away  at  hearing  of  these  sad 
changes  in  his  home  and  friends,  and  finding  himself 
thus  alone  in  the  world.  Every  answer  puzzled  him 
too,  by  treating  of  such  enormous  lapses  of  time,  and 
of  matters  which  he  could  not  understand:  war — 
congress — Stony  Point; — he  had  no  courage  to  ask 
after  any  more  friends,  but  cried  out  in  despair, 
''Does  nobody  here  know  Rip  Van  Winkle?" 

'*0h.  Rip  Van  Winkle!"  exclaimed  two  or  three, 
**0h,  to  be  sure!  that 's  Rip  Van  Winkle  yonder, 
leaning  against  the  tree. " 

Rip  looked,  and  beheld  a  precise  counterpart  of 
himself,  as  he  went  up  the  mountain:  apparently  as 
lazy,  and  certainly  as  ragged.  The  poor  fellow  was 
now  completely  confounded.  He  doubted  his  own 
identity,  and  whether  he  was  himself  or  another  man. 
In  the  midst  of  his  bewilderment,  the  man  in  the 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE  85 

cocked  hat  demanded  who  he  was,  and  what  was  his 
name. 

"God  knows,"  exclaimed  he,  at  his  wit's  end; 
*'  I  'm  not  myself — I  'm  somebody  else — that 's  me 
yonder — ^no — that 's  somebody  else  got  into  my  shoes 
— I  was  myself  last  night,  but  I  fell  asleep  on  the 
mountain,  and  they  Ve  changed  my  gun,  and  every- 
thing 's  changed,  and  I  'm  changed,  and  I  can't  tell 
what 's  my  name,  or  who  I  am!" 

The  by-standers  began  now  to  look  at  each  other, 
nod,  wink  significantly,  and  tap  their  fingers  against 
their  foreheads.  There  was  a  whisper,  also,  about 
securing  the  gun,  and  keeping  the  old  fellow  from 
doing  mischief,  at  the  very  suggestion  of  which  the 
self-important  man  in  the  cocked  hat  retired  with 
some  precipitation.  At  this  critical  moment  a  fresh, 
comely  woman  pressed  through  the  throng  to  get  a 
peep  at  the  gray-bearded  man.  She  had  a  chubby 
child  in  her  arms,  which,  frightened  at  his  looks, 
began  to  cry.  "Hush,  Rip,"  cried  she,  "hush,  you 
little  fool;  the  old  man  won't  hurt  you. "  The  name 
of  the  child,  the  air  of  the  mother,  the  tone  of  her 
voice,  all  awakened  a  train  of  recollections  in  his 
mind.  "What  is  your  name,  my  good  woman?" 
asked  he. 

"Judith  Gardenier." 

' '  And  your  father's  name  ?  " 

"Ah,  poor  man.  Rip  Van  Winkle  was  his  name,  but 
it 's  twenty  years  since  he  went  away  from  home  with 
his  gun,  and  never  has  been  heard  of  since — ^his  dog 

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86  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

came  home  without  him;  but  whether  he  shot  himself, 
or  was  carried  away  by  the  Indians,  nobody  can  tell. 
I  was  then  but  a  little  giri. " 

Rip  had  but  one  question  more  to  ask;  but  he  put  it 
with  a  faltering  voice : 

** Where  's  your  mother?" 

*'0h,  she  too  had  died  but  a  short  time  since;  she 
broke  a  blood-vessel  in  a  fit  of  passion  at  a  New-Eng- 
land peddler. "  ^ 

There  was  a  drop  of  comfort,  at  least,  in  this  intel- 
ligence. The  honest  man  could  contain  himself  no 
longer.  He  caught  his  daughter  and  her  child  in  his 
arms.  "I  am  your  father!"  cried  he — "Young  Rip 
Van  Winkle  once — old  Rip  Van  Winkle  now! — Does 
nobody  know  poor  Rip  Van  Winkle?" 

All  stood  amazed,  until  an  old  woman,  tottering 
out  from  among  the  crowd,  put  her  hand  to  her  brow, 
and  peering  under  it  in  his  face  for  a  moment,  ex- 
claimed, ''Sure  enough!  it  is  Rip  Van  Winkle — ^it  is 
himself!  Welcome  home  again,  old  neighbor.  Why, 
where  have  you  been  these  twenty  long  years?" 

Rip's  story  was  soon  told,  for  the  whole  twenty 
years  had  been  to  him  but  as  one  night.  The  neigh- 
bors stared  when  they  heard  it;  some  were  seen  to 
wink  at  each  other,  and  put  their  tongues  in  their 
cheeks:  and  the  self-important  man  in  the  cocked  hat, 
who,  when  the  alarm  was  over,  had  returned  to  the 
field,  screwed  down  the  comers  of  his  mouth,  and 
shook  his  head — ^upon  which  there  was  a  general 
shaking  of  the  head  throughout  the  assemblage. 

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RIP  VAN  WINKLE  87 

It  was  determined,  however,  to  take  the  opinion  of 
old  Peter  Vanderdonk,  who  was  seen  slowly  advancing 
up  the  road.  He  was  a  descendant  of  the  historian 
of  that  name,  who  wrote  one  of  the  earliest  accounts 
of  the  province.  Peter  was  the  most  ancient  inhabi- 
tant of  the  village,  and  well  versed  in  all  the  wonder- 
ful events  and  traditions  of  the  neighborhood.  He 
recollected  Rip  at  once,  and  corroborated  his  story  in 
the  most  satisfactory  manner.  He  assured  the  com- 
pany that  it  was  a  fact,  handed  down  from  his  ancestor 
the  historian,  that  the  Kaatskill  Mountains  had  always 
been  haimted  by  strange  beings.  That  it  was  affirmed 
that  the  great  Hendrick  Hudson,  the  first  discoverer 
of  the  river  and  country,  kept  a  kind  of  vigil  there 
every  twenty  years,  with  his  crew  of  the  Half-Moon; 
being  permitted  in  this  way  to  revisit  the  scenes  of 
his  enterprise,  and  keep  a  guardian  eye  upon  the  river 
and  the  great  city  called  by  his  name.  That  his  father 
had  once  seen  them  in  their  old  Dutch  dresses  playing 
at  ninepins  in  a  hollow  of  the  mountain ;  and  that  he 
himself  had  heard,  one  summer  afternoon,  the  sound 
of  their  balls,  like  distant  peals  of  thunder. 

To  make  a  long  story  short,  the  company  broke  up 
and  returned  to  the  more  important  concerns  of  the 
election.  Rip's  daughter  took  him  home  to  live  with 
her;  she  had  a  snug,  well-furnished  house,  and  a 
stout  cheery  farmer  for  a  husband,  whom  Rip  recol- 
lected for  one  of  the  urchins  that  used  to  climb  upon 
his  back.  As  to  Rip's  son  and  heir,  who  was  the 
ditto  of  himself,  seen  leaning  against  the  tree,  he  was 

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88  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

employed  to  work  on  the  farm;  but  evinced  an  heredi- 
tary disposition  to  attend  to  anything  else  but  his 
business. 

Rip  now  resumed  his  old  walks  and  habits;  he  soon 
found  many  of  his  former  cronies,  though  all  rather 
the  worse  for  the  wear  and  tear  of  time;  and  preferred 
making  friends  among  the  rising  generation,  with 
whom  he  soon  grew  into  great  favor. 

Having  nothing  to  do  at  home,  and  being  arrived 
at  that  happy  age  when  a  man  can  be  idle  with  im- 
punity, he  took  his  place  once  more  on  the  bench  at 
the  inn  door,  and  was  reverenced  as  one  of  the  pa- 
triarchs of  the  village,  and  a  chronicle  of  the  old 
times  "before  the  war.'*  It  was  some  time  before 
he  could  get  into  the  regular  track  of  gossip,  or  could 
be  made  to  comprehend  the  strange  events  that, 
had  taken  place  during  his  torpor.  How  that  there 
had  been  a  revolutionary  war — that  the  country  had 
thrown  off  the  yoke  of  old  England — and  that,  in- 
stead of  being  a  subject  of  his  Majesty  George  the 
Third,  he  was  now  a  free  citizen  of  the  United  States. 
Rip,  in  fact,  was  no  politician;  the  changes  of  states 
and  empires  made  but  little  impression  on  him;  but 
there  was  one  species  of  despotism  under  which  he 
had  long  groaned,  and  that  was — petticoat  govern- 
ment. Happily  that  was  at  an  end;  he  had  got  his 
neck  out  of  the  yoke  of  matrimony,  and  could  go  in 
and  out  whenever  he  pleased,  without  dreading  the 
tyranny  of  Dame  Van  Winkle.  Whenever  her  name 
was  mentioned,  however,  he  shook  his  head,  shrugged 

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RIP  VAN  WINKLE  89 

his  shotdders,  arid  cast  up  his  eyes;  which  might  pass 
either  for  an  expression  of  resignation  to  his  fate,  or 
joy  at  his  deUverance. 

He  used  to  tell  his  story  to  every  stranger  that 
arrived  at  Mr.  Doolittle's  hotel.  He  was  observed, 
at  first,  to  vary  on  some  points  every  time  he  told  it, 
which  was,  doubtless,  owing  to  his  having  so  recently 
awaked.  It  at  last  settled  down  precisely  to  the  tale 
I  have  related,  and  not  a  man,  woman,  or  child  in 
the  neighborhood,  but  knew  it  by  heart.  Some  al- 
ways pretended  to  doubt  the  reality  of  it  and  insisted 
that  Rip  had  been  out  of  his  head,  and  that  this  was 
one  point  on  which  he  always  remained  flighty.  The 
old  Dutch  inhabitants,  however,  almost  universally 
gave  it  full  credit.  Even  to  this  day  they  never  hear 
a  thtmderstorm  of  a  summer  afternoon  about  the 
Kaatskill,  but  they  say  Hendrick  Hudson  and  his 
crew  are  at  their  game  of  ninepins;  and  it  is  a  com- 
mon wish  of  all  henpecked  husbands  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, when  life  hangs  heavy  on  their  hands,  that  they 
might  have  a  quieting  draught  out  of  Rip  Van  Winkle's 
flagon. 

NOTE 

The  foregoing  Tale,  one  would  suspect,  had  been  suggested  to 
Mr.  Knickerbocker  by  a  little  German  superstition  about  the 
Emperor  Frederick  der  Rothbartt  and  the  Kypphauser  mountain: 
the  subjoined  note,  however,  which  he  had  appended  to  the  Tale, 
shows  that  it  is  an  absolute  fact,  narrated  with  his  usual  fidelity: 

"The  story  of  Rip  Van  Winkle  may  seem  incredible  to  many, 
but  nevertheless  I  give  it  my  full  belief,  for  I  know  the  vicinity 

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90  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

of  our  old  Dutch  settlements  to  have  been  Very  subject  to  mar- 
vellous events  and  appearances.  Indeed,  I  have  heard  many 
stranger  stories  than  this,  in  the  villages  along  the  Hudson; 
all  of  which  were  too  well  authenticated  to  admit  of  a  doubt. 
I  have  even  talked  with  Rip  Van  Winkle  myself,  who,  when  last 
I  saw  him,  was  a  very  venerable  old  man,  and  so  perfectly  rational 
and  consistent  on  every  other  point,  that  I  think  no  conscien- 
tious person  could  refuse  to  take  this  into  the  bargain ;  nay,  I 
have  seen  a  certificate  on  the  subject  taken  before  a  country  jus- 
tice and  signed  with  a  cross,  in  the  justice's  own  handwriting. 
The  story,  therefore,  is  beyond  the  possibility  of  a  doubt. 

"  D.  K." 

POSTSCRIPT 

The  following  are  travelling  notes  from  a  memorandum-book 
jf  Mr.  Knickerbocker: 

*'  The  Kaatsberg,  or  Catskill  Mountains,  have  always  been  a  . 
region  full  of  fable.  The  Indians  considered  them  the  abode  of 
spirits,  who  influenced  the  weather,  spreading  sunshine  or  clouds 
over  the  landscape,  and  sending  good  or  bad  himting  seasons. 
They  were  ruled  by  an  old  squaw  spirit,  said  to  be  their  mother. 
She  dwelt  on  the  highest  peak  of  the  Catskills,  and  had  charge  of 
the  doors  of  day  and  night  to  open  and  shut  them  at  the  proper 
hour.  She  hung  up  the  new  moons  in  the  skies,  and  cut  up  the 
old  ones  into  stars.  In  times  of  drought,  if  properly  propitiated, 
she  would  spin  light  summer  clouds  out  of  cobwebs  and  morn- 
ing dew,  and  send  them  off  from  the  crest  of  the  mountain,  flake 
^ter  flake,  like  flakes  of  carded  cotton,  to  float  in  the  air;  until, 
dissolved  by  the  heat  of  the  sun,  they  would  fall  in  gentle  showers, 
csausing  the  grass  to  spring,  the  fruits  to  ripen,  and  the  com  to 
grow  an  inch  an  hour.  If  displeased,  however,  she  would  brew 
up  clouds  black  as  ink,  sitting  in  the  midst  of  them  like  a  bottle- 
bellied  spider  in  the  midst  of  its  web;  and  when  these  clouds 
broke,  woe  betide  the  valleys ! 

"  In  old  times,  say  the  Indian  traditions,  there  was  a  kind  of 
I 


yGoogk 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE  91 

Manitou  or  Spirit,  who  kept  about  the  wildest  recesses  of  the 
Catskill  Mountains,  and  took  a  mischievous  pleasure  in  wreaking 
all  kinds  of  evils  and  vexations  upon  the  red  men.  Sometimes 
he  would  assume  the  form  of  a  bear,  a  panther,  or  a  deer,  lead  the 
bewildered  hunter  a  weary  chase  through  tangled  forests  and 
among  ragged  rocks;  and  then  spring  off  with  a  loud  ho!  ho! 
leaving  him  aghast  on  the  brink  of  a  beetling  precipice  or  raging 
torrent. 

"  The  favorite  abode  of  this  Manitou  is  still  shown.  It  is  a 
great  rock  or  cliff  on  the  loneliest  part  of  the  mountains,  and, 
from  the  flowering  vines  which  clamber  about  it,  and  the  wild 
flowers  which  abound  in  its  neighborhood,  is  known  by  the  name 
of  the  Garden  Rock.  Near  the  foot  of  it  is  a  small  lake,  the  haunt 
of  the  solitary  bittern,  with  water-snakes  basking  in  the  sun  on 
the  leaves  of  the  pond-lilies  which  lie  on  the  surface.  This  place 
was  held  in  great  awe  by  the  Indians,  insomuch  that  the  bold- 
est hunter  would  not  pursue  his  game  within  its  precincts.  Once 
upon  a  time,  however,  a  hunter  who  had  lost  his  way  penetrated 
to  the  Garden  Rock,  where  he  beheld  a  number  of  gourds  placed 
in  the  crotches  of  trees.  One  of  these  he  seized  and  made  off 
with  it,  but  in  the  hurry  of  his  retreat  he  let  it  fall  among  the 
rocks,  when  a  great  stream  gushed  forth,  which  washed  him 
away  and  swept  him  down  precipices,  where  he  was  dashed  to 
pieces,  and  the  stream  made  its  way  to  the  Hudson,  and  con- 
tinues to  flow  to  the  present  day;  being  the  identical  stream 
known  by  the  name  of  the  Kaaters-kilL" 


yGoogk 


ENGLISH  WRITERS  ON  AMERICA 

Methinks  I  see  in  my  mind  a  noble  and  puissant  nation, 
rousing  herself  like  a  strong  man  after  sleep,  and  shaking  her 
invincible  locks:  methinks  I  see  her  as  an  eagle,  mewing  her 
mighty  youth,  and  kindling  her  imdazzled  eyes  at  the  full  mid- 
day beam. 

Milton  on  the  Liberty  of  the  Press. 

It  is  with  feelings  of  deep  regret  that  I  observe  the 
literary  animosity  daily  growing  up  between  England 
and  America.  Great  curiosity  has  been  awakened 
of  late  with  respect  to  the  United  States,  and  the 
London  press  has  teemed  with  volumes  of  travels 
through  the  Republic;  but  they  seem  intended  to 
diffuse  error  rather  than  knowledge;  and  so  success- 
ful have  they  been,  that,  notwithstanding  the  con- 
stant intercourse  between  the  nations,  there  is  no 
people  concerning  whom  the  great  mass  of  the  British 
public  have  less  pure  information,  or  entertain  more 
numerous  prejudices. 

English  travellers  are  the  best  and  the  worst  in 
the  world.  Where  no  motives  of  pride  or  interest 
intervene,  none  can  equal  them  for  profound  and 
philosophical  views  of  society,  or  faithful  and  graphi- 
cal descriptions  of  external  objects ;  but  when  either  the 
interest  or  reputation  of  their  own  country  comes  in 
collision  with  that  of  another,  they  go  to  the  opposite 

92 

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ENGLISH  WRITERS  ON  AMERICA       93 

extreme  and  forget  their  usual  probity  and  candor 
in  the  indulgence  of  splenetic  remark,  and  an  illiberal 
spirit  of  ridicule. 

Hence,  their  travels  are  more  honest  and  accurate, 
the  more  remote  the  cotmtry  described.  I  wotdd 
place  implicit  confidence  in  an  Englishman's  descrip- 
tions of  the  regions  beyond  the  cataracts  of  the  Nile; 
of  unknown  islands  in  the  Yellow  Sea;  of  the  interior 
of  India;  or  of  any  other  tract  which  other  travellers 
might  be  apt  to  picture  out  with  the  illusions  of  their 
fancies;  but  I  would  cautiously  receive  his  account  of 
his  immediate  neighbors,  and  of  those  nations  with 
which  he  is  in  habits  of  most  frequent  intercourse. 
However  I  might  be  disposed  to  trust  his  probity,  I 
dare  not  trust  his  prejudices. 

It  has  also  been  the  peculiar  lot  of  our  coimtry  to 
be  visited  by  the  worst  kind  of  English  travellers. 
While  men  of  philosophical  spirit  and  cultivaj:ed  minds 
have  been  sent  from  England  to  ransack  the  poles, 
to  penetrate  the  deserts,  and  to  study  the  manners 
and  customs  of  barbarous  nations,  with  which  she  can 
have  no  permanent  intercourse  of  profit  or  pleasure; 
it  has  been  left  to  the  broken-down  tradesman,  the 
scheming  adventurer,  the  wandering  mechanic,  the 
Manchester  and  Birmingham  agent,  to  be  her  oracles 
respecting  America.  From  such  sources  she  is  content 
to  rece've  her  information  respecting  a  country  in  a 
singular  state  of  moral  and  physical  development;  a 
country  in  which  one  of  the  greatest  political  experi- 
ments in  the  history  of  the  world  is  now  performing; 

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94  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

and  which  presents  the  most  profound  and  momentous 
studies  to  the  statesman  and  the  philosopher. 

That  such  men  should  give  prejudicial  accounts  of 
America  is  not  a  matter  of  surprise.  The  themes  it 
offers  for  contemplation  are  too  vast  and  elevated  for 
their  capacities.  The  national  character  is  yet  in  a 
state  of  fermentation;  it  may  have  its  frothiness  and 
sediment,  but  its  ingredients  are  sound  and  wholesome ; 
it  has  already  given  proofs  of  powerful  and  generous 
qualities;  and  the  whole  promises  to  settle  down  into 
something  substantially  excellent.  But  the  causes 
which  are  operating  to  strengthen  and  ennoble  it, 
and  its  daily  indications  of  admirable  properties,  are 
all  lost  upon  these  purblind  observers;  who  are  only 
affected  by  the  little  asperities  incident  to  its  present 
situation.  They  are  capable  of  judging  only  of  the 
surface  of  things;  of  those  matters  which  come  in 
contact  with  their  private  interests  and  personal 
gratifications.  They  miss  some  of  the  snug  con- 
veniences and  petty  comforts  which  belong  to  an  old, 
highly-finished,  and  over-populous  state  of  society; 
where  the  ranks  of  useful  labor  are  crowded,  and  many 
earn  a  painful  and  servile  subsistence  by  studying  the 
very  caprices  of  appetite  and  self-indulgence.  These 
minor  comforts,  however,  are  all-important  in  the 
estimation  of  narrow  minds;  which  either  do  not  per- 
ceive, or  will  not  acknowledge,  that  they  are  more 
than  counterbalanced  among  us  by  great  and  gen- 
erally diffused  blessings. 

They  may,  perhaps,  have  been  disappointed  ia 

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ENGLISH  WRITERS  ON  AMERICA       95 

some  tmreasonable  expectation  of  sudden  gain.  They  - 
may  have  picttired  America  to  themselves  an  El 
Dorado,'  where  gold  and  silver  aboimded,  and  the 
natives  were  lacking  in  sagacity;  and  where  they  were 
to  become  strangely  and  suddenly  rich,  in  some 
unforeseen,  but  easy  manner.  The  same  weakness  of 
mind  that  indulges  absurd  expectations  produces 
petulance  in  disappointment.  Such  persons  become 
embittered  against  the  coimtry  on  finding  that  there, 
as  everywhere  else,  a  man  must  sow  before  he  can 
reap;  must  win  wealth  by  industry  and  talent;  and 
must  contend  with  the  common  difficulties  of  nature, 
and  the  shrewdness  of  an  intelligent  and  enterpris- 
ing people. 

Perhaps,  through  mistaken  or  ill-directed  hospital- 
ity, or  from  the  prompt  disposition  to  cheer  and 
countenance  the  stranger,  prevalent  among  my  coun- 
trymen, they  may  have  been  treated  with  unwonted 
respect  in  America;  and  having  been  accustomed  all 
their  lives  to  consider  themselves  below  the  surface 
of  good  society,  and  brought  up  in  a  servile  feeling  of 
inferiority,  they  become  arrogant  on  the  common 
boon  of  civility:  they  attribute  to  the  lowliness  of 
others  their  own  elevation;  and  underrate  a  society 
where  there  are  no  artificial  distinctions,  and  where, 
by  any  chance,  such  individuals  as  themselves  can 
rise  to  consequence. 

One  would  suppose,  however,  that  information 
coming  from  such  sources,  on  a  subject  where  the 
truth  is  so  desirable,  would  be  received  with  caution 

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96  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

by  the  censors  of  the  press;  that  the  motives  of  these 
men,  their  veracity,  their  opportunities  of  inquiry  and 
observation,  and  their  capacities  for  judging  correctly, 
would  be  rigorously  scrutinized  before  their  evidence 
was  admitted,  in  such  sweeping  extent,  against  a 
kindred  nation.  The  very  reverse,  however,  is  the 
case,  and  it  furnishes  a  striking  instance  of  human 
inconsistency.  Nothing  can  surpass  the  vigilance  with 
which  English  critics  will  examine  the  credibility  of 
the  traveller  who  publishes  an  account  of  some  distant 
and  comparatively  unimportant  country.  How  warily 
will  they  compare  the  measurements  of  a  pjrramid, 
or  the  descriptions  of  a  ruin;  and  how  sternly  will 
they  censure  any  inaccuracy  in  these  contributions 
of  merely  curious  knowledge:  while  they  will  receive, 
with  eagerness  and  unhesitating  faith,  the  gross 
misrepresentations  of  coarse  and  obscure  writers, 
concerning  a  country  with  which  their  own  is  placed 
in  the  most  important  and  delicate  relations.  Nay, 
they  will  even  make  these  apocryphal  volumes  text- 
books, on  which  to  enlarge  with  a  zeal  and  an  ability 
worthy  of  a  more  generous  cause. 

I  shall  not,  however,  dwell  on  this  irksome  and 
hackneyed  topic;  nor  should  I  have  adverted  to  it, 
but  for  the  undue  interest  apparently  taken  in  it  by 
my  countrymen,  and  certain  injurious  effects  which  I 
apprehend  it  might  produce  upon  the  national  feeling. 
We  attach  too  much  consequence  to  these  attacks. 
They  cannot  do  us  any  essential  injury.  The  tissue 
of  misrepresentations  attempted  to  be  woven  round 

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ENGLISH  WRITERS  ON  AMERICA       97 

us  are  like  cobwebs  woven  round  the  limbs  of  an  infant 
giant.  Our  country  continually  outgrows  them.  One 
falsehood  after  another  falls  off  of  itself.  We  have 
but  to  live  on,  and  every  day  we  live  a  whole  volume 
of  refutation. 

All  the  writers  of  England  united,  if  we  could  for  a 
moment  suppose  their  great  minds  stooping  to  so 
unworthy  a  combination,  could  not  conceal  our  rapidly 
growing  importance,  and  matchless  prosperity.  They 
could  not  conceal  that  these  are  owing,  not  merely  to 
physical  and  local,  but  also  to  moral  causes — to  the 
political  liberty,  the  gfeneral  diffusion  of  knowledge, 
the  prevalence  of  sound  moral  and  religious  principles, 
which  give  force  and  sustained  energy  to  the  character 
of  a  people;  and  which,  in  fact,  have  been  the  acknow- 
ledged and  wonderful  supporters  of  their  own  national 
power  and  glory. 

But  why  are  we  so  exquisitely  alive  to  the  aspersions 
of  England?  Why  do  we  suffer  ourselves  to  be  so 
affected  by  the  contumely  she  has  endeavored  to  cast 
upon  us?  It  is  not  in  the  opinion  of  England  alone 
that  honor  lives,  and  reputation  has  its  being.  The 
world  at  large  is  the  arbiter  of  a  nation's  fame;  with  its 
thousand  eyes  it  witnesses  a  nation's  deeds,  and  from 
their  collective  testimony  is  national  glory  or  national 
disgrace  established. 

For  ourselves,  therefore,  it  is  comparatively  of  but 
little  importance  whether  England  does  us  justice 
or  not;  it  is,  perhaps,  of  far  more  importance  to  her- 
•elf .     She  is  instilling  anger  and  resentment  into  the 

V 

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98  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

bosom  of  a  youthful  nation,  to  grow  with  its  growth 
and  strengthen  with  its  strength.  If  in  America,  as 
some  of  her  writers  are  laboring  to  convince  her,  she  is 
hereafter  to  find  an  invidious  rival,  and  a  gigantic 
foe,  she  may  thank  those  very  writers  for  having 
provoked  rivalship  and  irritated  hostility.  Every  one 
knows  the  all-pervading  influence  of  literature  at  the 
present  day,  and  how  much  the  opinions  and  passions 
of  mankind  are  under  its  control.  The  mere  contests 
of  the  sword. are  temporary;  their  wounds  are  but  in 
the  flesh,  and  it  is  the  pride  of  the  generous  to  forgive 
and  forget  them;  but  the  slanders  of  the  pen  pierce 
to  the  heart ;  they  rankle  longest  in  the  noblest  spirits ; 
they  dwell  ever  present  in  the  mind,  and  render  it 
morbidly  sensitive  to  the  most  trifling  collision.  It  is 
but  seldom  that  any  one  overt  act  produces  hostilities 
between  two  nations;  there  exists,  most  commonly,  a- 
previous  jealousy  and  ill-will;  a  predisposition  to 
take  offence.  Trace  these  to  their  cause,  and  how 
often  will  they  be  found  to  originate  in  the  mis- 
chievous effusions  of  mercenary  writers;  who,  secure 
in  their  closets,  and  for  ignominious  bread,  concoct 
and  circulate  the  venom  that  is  to  inflame  the  generous 
and  the  brave. 

I  am  not  laying  too  much  stress  upon  this  point; 
for  it  applies  most  emphatically  to  our  particular  case. 
Over  no  nation  does  the  press  hold  a  more  absolute 
control  than  over  the  people  of  America;  for  the  uni- 
versal education  of  the  poorest  classes  makes  every 
Individual  a  reader.    There  is  nothiag  published  in 

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ENGLISH  WRITERS  ON  AMERICA       99 

England  on  the  subject  of  our  country  that  does  not 
circulate  through  every  part  of  it.  There  is  not  a 
calumny  dropped  from  English  pen,  nor  an  unworthy 
sarcasm  uttered  by  an  English  statesman,  that  does 
not  go  to  blight  good-will,  and  add  to  the  mass  of 
latent  resentment.  Possessing,  then,  as  England 
does,  the  fountain-head  whence  the  literature  of  the 
language  flows,  how  completely  is  it  in  her  power,  and 
how  truly  is  it  her  duty,  to  make  it  the  medium  of 
amiable  and  magnanimous  feeling — a  stream  where  the 
two  nations  might  meet  together,  and  drink  in  peace 
and  kindness.  Should  she,  however,  persist  in  turning 
it  to  waters  of  bitterness,  the  time  may  come  when  she 
may  repent  her  folly.  The  present  friendship  of 
America  may  be  of  but  little  moment  to  her;  but  the 
futiu-e  destinies  of  that  country  do  not  admit  of  a 
doubt;  over  those  of  England  there  lower  some  shad- 
ows of  uncertainty.  Should,  then,  a  day  of  gloom 
arrive;  should  these  reverses  overtake  her,  from  which 
the  proudest  empires  have  not  been  exempt;  she  may 
look  back  with  regret  at  her  infatuation,  in  repuls- 
ing from  her  side  a  nation  she  might  have  grappled 
to  her  bosom,  and  thus  destroying  her  only  chance 
for  real  friendship  beyond  the  boundaries  of  her  own 
dominions. 

There  is  a  general  impression  in  England,  that  the 
people  of  the  United  States  are  inimical  to  the  parent 
country.  It  is  one  of  the  errors  whicli  have  been 
diligently  propagated  by  designing  writers.  There 
is  doubtless,  considerable  political  hostility,  and  a 

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lOO  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

general  soreness  at  the  illiberality  of  the  English 
press;  but,  generally  speaking,  the  prepossessions  of 
the  people  are  strongly  in  favor  of  England.  Indeed, 
at  one  time,  they  amounted,  in  many  parts  of  the 
Union,  to  an  absurd  degree  of  bigotry.  The  bare 
name  of  Englishman  was  a  passport  to  the  confidence 
and  hospitality  of  every  family,  and  too  often  gave  a 
transient  currency  to  the  worthless  and  the  ungrateful. 
Throughout  the  country  there  was  something  of 
enthusiasm  connected  with  the  idea  of  England. 
We  looked  to  it  with  a  hallowed  feeling  of  tenderness 
and  veneration,  as  the  land  of  our  forefathers — the 
august  repository  of  the  montiments  and  antiquities 
of  our  race — the  birthplace  and  mausoleum  of  the 
sages  and  heroes  of  our  paternal  history.  After  our 
own  country,  there  was  none  in  whose  glory  we  more 
delighted — ^none  whose  good  opinion  we  were  more 
anxious  to  possess — ^none  towards  which  our  hearts 
yearned  with  such  throbbings  of  warm  consanguinity. 
Even  during  the  late  war,  ^  whenever  there  was  the  least 
opportunity  for  kind  feelings  to  spring  forth,  it  was 
the  delight  of  the  generous  spirits  of  our  country  to 
show  that,  in  the  midst  of  hostilities,  they  still  kept 
alive  the  sparks  of  future  friendship. 

Is  all  this  to  be  at  an  end?  Is  this  golden  band  of 
kindred  sympathies,  so  rare  between  nations,  to  be 
broken  forever? — Perhaps  it  is  for  the  best — ^it  may 
dispel  an  illusion  which  might  have  kept  us  in  mental 
vassalage;  which  might  have  interfered  occasionally 
with  our  true  interests,  and  prevented  the  growth  of 

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ENGLISH  WRITERS  ON  AMERICA     loi 

proper  national  pride.  But  it  is  hard  to  give  up  the 
kindred  tie!  and  there  are  feelings  dearer  than  interest 
— closer  to  the  heart  than  pride — ^that  will  still  make 
us  cast  back  a  look  of  regret,  as  we  wander  farther  and 
farther  from  the  paternal  roof,  and  lament  the  way- 
wardness of  the  parent  that  wotdd  repel  the  affections 
of  the  child. 

Short-sighted  and  injudicious,  however,  as  the 
conduct  of  England  may  be  in  this  system  of  aspersion, 
recrimination  on  our  part  would  be  equally  ill-judged. 
I  speak  not  of  a  prompt  and  spirited  vindication  of  otir 
country,  nor  the  keenest  castigation  of  her  slanderers — 
but  I  allude  to  a  disposition  to  retaliate  in  kind;  to 
retort  sarcasm,  and  inspire  prejudice;  which  seems  to 
be  spreading  widely  among  our  writers.  Let  us  guard 
particularly  against  such  a  temper,  for  it  would  double 
the  evil  instead  of  redressing  the  wrong.  Nothing  is 
so  easy  and  inviting  as  the  retort  of  abuse  and  sarcasm ; 
but  it  is  a  paltry  and  an  unprofitable  contest.  It  is 
the  alternative  of  a  morbid  mind,  fretted  into  petu- 
lance, rather  than  warmed  into  indignation.  If 
England  is  willing  to  permit  the  mean  jealousies  of 
trade,  or  the  rancorous  animosities  of  politics,  to 
deprave  the  integrity  of  her  press,  and  poison  the 
fountain  of  public  opinion,  let  us  beware  of  her  exam- 
ple. She  may  deem  it  her  interest  to  diffuse  error, 
and  engender  antipathy,  for  the  purpose  of  checking 
emigration;  we  have  no  purpose  of  the  kind  to  serve. 
Neither  have  we  any  spirit  of  national  jealousy  to 
gratify,  for  as  yet,  in  all  our  rivalships  with  England^ 

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102  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

we  are  the  rising  and  the  gaining  party.  There  can  be 
no  end  to  answer,  therefore,  but  the  gratification  of 
resentment — a  mere  spirit  of  retaliation;  and  even  that 
is  impotent.  Our  retorts  are  never  republished  in 
England;  they  fall  short,  therefore,  of  their  aim;  but 
they  foster  a  querulous  and  peevish  temper  among  our 
writers ;  they  sour  the  sweet  flow  of  our  early  literature, 
and  sow  thorns  and  brambles  among  its  blossoms. 
What  is  still  worse,  they  circulate  through  our  own 
country,  and,  as  far  as  they  have  effect,  excite  viru- 
lent national  prejudices.  This  last  is  the  evil  most 
especially  to  be  deprecated.  Governed,  as  we  are, 
entirely  by  public  opinion,  the  utmost  care  should  be 
taken  to  preserve  the  purity  of  the  public  mind. 
Knowledge  is  power,  and  truth  is  knowledge ;  whoever, 
therefore,  knowingly  propagates  a  prejudice,  wilfully 
saps  the  foundation  of  his  country's  strength. 

The  members  of  a  republic,  above  all  other  men, 
should  be  candid  and  dispassionate.  They  are,  individ- 
ually, portions  of  the  sovereign  mind  and  sovereign 
will,  and  should  be  enabled  to  come  to  all  ques- 
tions of  national  concern  with  calm  and  unbiassed 
judgments.  From  the  peculiar  nature  of  our  relations 
with  England,  we  must  have  more  frequent  questions 
of  a  difficult  and  delicate  character  with  her  than  with 
any  other  nation;  questions  that  affect  the  most  acute 
and  excitable  feelings ;  and  as,  in  the  adjusting  of  these 
our  national  measures  must  ultimately  be  determined 
by  popular  sentiment,  we  cannot  be  too  anxiously  atten- 
tive to  ptirif y  it  from  all  latent  passion  or  prepossession. 

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ENGLISH  WRITERS  ON  AMERICA      103 

Opening,  too,  as  we  do,  an  asylum  for  strangers 
frqm  every  portion  of  the  earth,  we  should  receive  all 
with  impartiality.  It  should  be  our  pride  to  exhibit 
an  example  of  one  nation,  at  least,  destitute  of  national 
antipathies,  and  exercising  not  merely  the  overt  acts 
of  hospitality,  but  those  more  rare  and  noble  cotirte- 
sies  which  spring  from  liberality  of  opinion. 

What  have  we  to  do  with  national  prejudices? 
They  are  the  inveterate  diseases  of  old  countries, 
contracted  in  rude  and  ignorant  ages,  when  nations 
knew  but  little  of  each  other,  and  looked  beyond 
their  own  boundaries  with  distrust  and  hostility.  We, 
on  the  contrary,  have  spnmg  into  national  existence 
in  an  enlightened  and  philosophic  age,  when  the  differ- 
ent parts  of  the  habitable  world,  and  the  various 
branches  of  the  human  family,  have  been  indefatig- 
ably  studied  and  made  known  to  each  other;  and  we 
forego  the  advantages  of  our  birth,  if  we  do  not  shake 
off  the  national  prejudices,  as  we  wotdd  the  local 
superstitions,  of  the  old  world. 

But  above  all  let  us  not  be  influenced  by  any  angry 
feelings,  so  far  as  to  shut  our  eyes  to  the  perception  of 
what  is  really  excellent  and  amiable  in  the  English 
character.  We  are  a  young  people,  necessarily  an 
imitative  one,  and  must  take  our  examples  and  models, 
in  a  great  degree,  from  the  existing  nations  of  Europe. 
There  is  no  country  more  worthy  of  our  study  than 
England.  The  spirit  of  her  constitution  is  most 
analogous  to  ours.  The  manners  of  her  people — 
their  intellectual  activity — their  freedom  of  opinion — • 

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104  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

their  habits  of  thinking  on  those  subjects  which  con- 
cern the  dearest  interests  and  most  sacred  charities 
of  private  life,  are  all  congenial  to  the  American 
character;  and,  in  fact,  are  all  intrinsically  excellent; 
for  it  is  in  the  moral  feeling  of  the  people  that  the  deep 
foundations  of  British  prosperity  are  laid;  and  how- 
ever the  superstructure  may  be  timewom,  or  over- 
run by  abuses,  there  must  be  something  solid  in  the 
basis,  admirable  in  the  materials,  and  stable  in  the 
structure  of  an  edifice,  that  so  long  has  towered  un- 
shaken amidst  the  tempests  of  the  world. 

Let  it  be  the  pride  of  our  writers,  therefore,  dis- 
carding all  feelings  of  irritation,  and  disdaining  to 
retaliate  the  illiberality  of  British  authors,  to  speak 
of  the  English  nation  without  prejudice,  and  with 
determined  candor.  While  they  rebuke  the  indis- 
criminating  bigotry  with  which  some  of  our  country- 
men admire  and  imitate  everything  English,  merely 
because  it  is  English,  let  them  frankly  point  out  what 
is  really  worthy  of  approbation.  We  may  thus  place 
England  before  us  as  a  perpetual  voltmie  of  reference, 
wherein  are  recorded  sound  deductions  from  ages  of 
experience;  and  while  we  avoid  the  errors  and  absur- 
dities which  may  have  crept  into  the  page,  we  may 
draw  thence  golden  maxims  of  practical  wisdom, 
wherewith  to  strengthen  and  to  embellish  our  national 
character. 


yGoogk 


RURAL  LIFE  IN  ENGLAND 


Oh!  friendly  to  the  best  pursuits  of  man, 
Friendly  to  thought,  to  virtue,  and  to  peace, 
Domestic  life  in  rural  pleasures  past! 

COWPBR. 


The  stranger  who  would  form  a  correct  opinion 
of  the  English  character  must  not  confine  his  obser- 
vations to  the  metropolis.  He  must  go  forth  into  the 
country;  he  must  sojourn  in  villages  and  hamlets;  he 
must  visit  castles,  villas,  farmhouses,  cottages;  he 
must  wander  through  parks  and  gardens;  along 
hedges  and  green  lanes?  he  must  loiter  about  country 
churches;  attend  wakes  and  fairs,  and  other  rural 
festivals;  and  cope  with  the  people  in  all  their  condi- 
tions, and  all  their  habits  and  htimors. 

In  some  countries  the  large  cities  absorb  the  wealth 
and  fashion  of  the  nation;  they  are  the  only  fixed 
abodes  of  elegant  and  intelligent  society,  and  the 
country  is  inhabited  almost  entirely  by  boorish 
peasantry.  In  England,  on  the  contrary,  the  metro- 
polis is  a  mere  gathering-place,  or  general  rendezvous, 
of  the  polite  classes,  where  they  devote  a  small  portion 
of  the  year  to  a  hurry  of  gayety  and  dissipation,  and,  | 
having  indulged  this  kind  of  carnival,  return  again  to 
the  apparently  more  congenial  habits  of  rural  life. 

105 


yGoogk 


I06  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

The  various  orders  of  society  are  therefore  diffused 
over  the  whole  surface  of  the  kingdom,  and  the  most 
retired  neighborhoods  afford  specimens  of  the  differ- 
ent ranks. 

The  English,  in  fact,  are  strongly  gifted  with  the 
rural  feeling.  They  possess  a  quick  sensibility  to  the 
beauties  of  nature,  and  a  keen  relish  for  the  pleasures 
and  employments  of  the  country.  This  passion 
seems  inherent  in  them.  Even  the  inhabitants  of 
cities,  bom  and  brought  up  among  brick  walls  and 
bustling  streets,  enter  with  facility  into  rural  habits, 
and  evince  a  tact  for  rural  occupation.  The  merchant 
has  his  snug  retreat  in  the  vicinity  of  the  metropolis, 
where  he  often  displays  as  much  pride  an'd  zeal  in  the 
cultivation  of  his  flower-garden,  and  the  maturing  of 
his  fruits,  as  he  does  in  the  conduct  of  his  business, 
and  the  success  of  a  commercial  enterprise.  Even 
those  less  fortunate  individuals,  who  are  doomed  to 
p^ss  their  lives  in  the  midst  of  din  and  traflBc,  contrive 
to  have  something  that  shall  remind  them  of  the  green 
aspect  of  nature.  In  the  most  dark  and  dingy  quar- 
ters of  the  city,  the  drawing-room  window  resembles 
frequently  a  bank  of  flowers;  every  spot-  capable  of 
vegetation  has  its  grass-plot  and  flower-oed;  and  every 
square  its  mimic  park,  laid  out  with  picturesque 
taste,  and  gleaming  with  refreshing  verdure. 

Those  who  see  the  Englishman  only  in  town  are 
apt  to  form  an  unfavorable  opinion  of  his  social 
character.  He  is  either  absorbed  in  business,  or  dis- 
tracted by  the  thousand  engagements  that  dissipate 

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RURAL  LIFE  IN  ENGLAND  107 

time,  thought,  and  feeling,  in  this  huge  metropolis. 
He  has,  therefore,  too  commonly  a  look  of  hurry  and 
abstraction.  Wherever  he  happens  to  be,  he  is  on  the 
point  of  going  somewhere  else;  at  the  moment  he  is 
talking  on  one  subject,  his  mind  is  wandering  to  an- 
other; and  while  paying  a  friendly  visit,  he  is  calcu- 
lating how  he  shall  economize  time  so  as  to  pay  the 
other  visits  allotted  in  the  morning.  An  immense 
metropolis,  like  London,  is  calculated  to  make  men 
selfish  and  uninteresting.  In  their  casual  and  tran- 
sient meetings,  they  can  but  deal  briefly  in  common- 
places. They  present  but  the  cold  superficies  of 
character — its  rich  and  genial  qualities  have  no  time 
to  be  warmed  into  a  flow. 

It  is  in  the  country  that  the  Englishman  gives 
scope  to  his  natural  feelings.  He  breaks  loose 
gladly  from  the  cold,  formalities  and  negative  civilities 
of  town;  throws  off  his  habits  of  shy  reserve,  and 
becomes  joyous  and  free-hearted.  He  manages  to 
collect  round  him  all  the  conveniences  and  elegancies 
of  polite  life,  and  to  banish  its  restraints.  His  country- 
seat  abounds  with  every  requisite,  either  for  studious 
retirement,  tasteful  gratification,  or  rural  exercise. 
Books,  paintings,  music,  horses,  dogs,  and  sporting 
implements  of  all  kinds  are  at  hand.  He  puts  no 
constraint  either  upon  his  guests  or  himself,  but  in  the 
true  spirit  of  hospitality  provides  the  means  of  en- 
joyment, and  leaves  every  one  to  partake  according 
to  his  inclination.  1 

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io8  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

and  in  what  is  called  landscape  gardening,  is  unriv- 
alled. They  have  studied  nature  intently,  and  dis- 
cover an  exquisite  sense  of  her  beautiful  forms  and 
harmonious  combinations.  Those  charms  which  in 
other  countries  she  lavishes  in  wild  solitudes  are  here 
assembled  round  the  haunts  of  domestic  life.  They 
seem  to  have  caught  her  coy  and  furtive  graces,  and 
spread  them,  like  witchery,  about  their  rural  abodes. 

Nothing  can  be  more  imposing  than  the  mag- 
nificence of  English  park  scenery.  Vast  lawns  that 
extend  like  sheets  of  vivid  green,  with  here  and  there 
cltunps  of  gigantic  trees,  heaping  up  rich  piles  of 
foliage:  the  solemn  pomp  of  groves  and  woodland 
glades,  with  the  deer  trooping  in  silent  herds  across 
them;  the  hare,  bounding  away  to  the  covert;  or  the 
pheasant,  suddenly  bursting  upon  the  wing :  the  brook, 
taught  to  wind  in  natural  meanderings  or  expand  into 
a  glassy  lake:  the  sequestered  pool,  reflecting  the  quiv- 
!  ering  trees,  with  the  yellow  leaf  sleeping  on  its  bosom, 
and  the  trout  roaming  fearlessly  about  its  limpid 
waters;  while  some  rustic  temple  or  sylvan  statue, 
grown  green  and  dank  with  age,  gives  an  air  of  classic 
sanctity  to  the  seclusion. 

These  are  but  a  few  of  the  features  of  park  scenery; 
but  what  most  delights  me  is  the  creative  talent  with 
which  the  English  decorate  the  unostentatious  abodes 
of  middle  life.  The  rudest  habitation,  the  most 
unpromising  and  scanty  portion  of  land,  in  the  hands 
of  an  Englishman  of  taste,  becomes  a  little  paradise. 
Wtth  a  nicely  discriminating  eye,  he  seizes  at  once 

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RURAL  LIFE  IN  ENGLAND  109 

upon  its  capabilities,  and  pictures  in  his  mind  the 
future  landscape.  The  sterile  spot  grows  into  love- 
liness tmder  his  hand;  and  yet  the  operations  of  art 
which  produce  the  effect  are  scarcely  to  be  perceived. 
The  cherishing  and  training  of  some  trees ;  the  cautious 
pruning  of  others;  the  nice  distribution  of  flowers  and 
plants  of  tender  and  graceful  foliage;  the  introduction 
of  a  green  slope  of  velvet  turf ;  the  partial  opening  to  a 
peep  of  blue  distance,  or  silver  gleam  of  water:  all 
these  are  managed  with  a  delicate  tact,  a  pervad- 
ing yet  quiet  assiduity,  like  the  magic  touchings 
with  which  a  painter  finishes  up  a  favorite  picture. 

The  residence  of  people  of  fortune  and  refinement 
in  the  country  has  diffused  a  degree  of  taste  and  ele- 
gance in  rural  economy,  that  descends  to  the  lowest 
class.  The  very  laborer,  with  his  thatched  cottage 
and  narrow  slip  of  ground,  attends  to  their  embellish- 
ment. The  trim  hedge,  the  grass-plot  before  the  door, 
the  little  flower-bed  bordered  with  snug  box,  the  wood- 
bine trained  up  against  the  wall,  and  hanging  its 
blossoms  about  the  lattice,  the  pot  of  flowers  in  th^ 
window,  the  holly,  providently  planted  about  the 
house,  to  cheat  winter  of  its  dreariness,  and  to  throw 
in  a  semblance  of  green  summer  to  cheer  the  fireside : 
all  these  bespeak  the  influence  of  taste,  flowing  down 
from  high  sources,  and  pervading  the  lowest  levels 
of  the  public  mind.  If  ever  Love,  as  poets  sing, 
delights  to  visit  a  cottage,  it  must  be  the  cottage  of 
an  English  peasant. 

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no  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

of  the  EngKsh  has  had  a  great  and  salutary  effect 
upon  the  national  character.  I  do  not  know  a  finer 
race  of  men  than  the  English  gentlemen.  Instead  of 
the  softness  and  effeminacy  which  characterize  the 
men  of  rank  in  most  countries,  they  exhibit  a  union 
of  elegance  and  strength,  a  robustness  of  frame  and 
freshness  of  complexion,  which  I  am  inclined  to 
attribute  to  their  living  so  much  in  the  open  air,  and 
pursuing  so  eagerly  the  invigorating  recreations  of 
the  country;  These  hardy  exercises  produce  also  a 
healthful  tone  of  mind  and  spirits,  and  a  manliness 
and  simplicity  of  manners,  which  even  the  follies  and 
dissipations  of  the  town  cannot  easily  pervert,  and 
can  never  entirely  destroy.  In  the  country,  too,  the 
different  orders  of  society  seem  to  approach  more 
freely,  to  be  more  disposed  to  blend  and  operate 
favorably  upon  each  other.  The  distinctions  be- 
tween them  do  not  appear  to  be  so  marked  and  impas- 
sable as  in  the  cities.  The  manner  in  which  property 
has  been  distributed  into  small  estates  and  farms  has 
established  a  regular  gradation  from  the  nobleman, 
through  the  classes  of  gentry,  small  landed  proprie- 
tors, and  substantial  farmers,  down  to  the  laboring 
peasantry;  and  while  it  has  thus  banded  the  extremes 
of  society  together,  has  infused  into  each  intermediate 
rank  a  spirit  of  independence.  This,  it  must  be 
confessed,  is  not  so  universally  the  case  at  present  as 
it  was  formerly;  the  larger  estates  having,  in  late  years 
of  distress,  absorbed  the  smaller,  and,  in  some  parts 
of  the  country,  almost  annihilated  the  sturdy  race  of 

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RURAL  LIFE  IN  ENGLAND  in 

small  farmers.  These,  however,  I  believe,  are  but 
casual  breaks  in  the  general  system  I  have  mentioned. 

In  rural  occupation  there  is  nothing  mean  and 
debasing.  It  leads  a  man  forth  among  scenes  of 
natural  grandeur  and  beauty;  it  leaves  him  to  the 
workings  of  his  own  mind,  operated  upon  by  the  purest 
and  most  elevating  of  external  influences.  Such  a 
man  may  be  simple  and  rough,  but  he  cannot  be 
vulgar.  The  man  of  refinement,  therefore,  finds 
nothing  revolting  in  an  intercourse  with  the  lower 
orders  in  rural  life,  as  he  does  when  he  casually 
mingles  with  the  lower  orders  of  cities.  He  lays 
aside  his  distance  and  reserve,  and  is  glad  to  waive  the 
distinctions  of  rank,  and  to  enter  into  the  honest, 
heartfelt  enjoyments  of  common  life.  Indeed  the 
very  amusements  of  the  country  bring  men  more  and 
more  together;  and  the  sounds  of  hound  and  horn 
blend  all  feelings  into  harmony.  I  believe  this  is  one 
great  reason  why  the  nobility  and  gentry  are  more 
popular  among  the  inferior  orders  in  England  than  they 
are  in  any  other  country;  and  why  the  latter  have 
endured  so  many  excessive  pressures  and  extremities, 
without  repining  more  generally  at  the  unequal  dis** 
tribution  of  fortune  and  privilege. 

To  this  mingling  of  cultivated  and  rustic  society 
may  also  be  attributed  the  rural  feeling  that  runs 
through  British  literature;  the  frequent  use  of  illus- 
trations from  rural  life;  those  incomparable  descrip* 
tions  of  nature  that  abound  in  the  British  poets, 
that  have  continued  down  from  '*the  Flower  and  the 


yGoogk 


112  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

Leaf  "'of  Chaucer,  and  have  brought  into  our  closets 
all  the  freshness  and  fragrance  of  the  dewy  landscape. 
The  pastoral  writers  of  other  countries  appear  as  if 
they  had  paid  nature  an  occasional  visit,  and  become 
acquainted  with  her  general  charms;  but 'the  British 
poets  have  lived  and  reveUed  with  her — ^they  have 
wooed  her  in  her  most  secret  haunts — ^they  have 
watched  her  minutest  caprices.  A  spray  could  not 
tremble  in  the  breeze — a  leaf  could  not  rustle  to  the 
ground — a  diamond  drop  could  not  patter  in  the 
stream — a  fragrance  could  not  exhale  from  the  humble 
violet,  nor  a  daisy  unfold  its  crimson  tints  to  the 
morning,  but  it  has  been  noticed  by  these  impassioned 
and  delicate  observers,  and  wrought  up  into  some 
beautiful  morality. 

The  effect  of  this  devotion  of  elegant  minds  to 
rural  occupations  has  been  wonderful  on  the  face 
of  the  country.  A  great  part  of  the  island  is  rather 
level,  and  would  be  monotonous,  were  it  not  for  the 
charms  of  culture:  but  it  is  studded  and  gemmed,  as 
it  were,  with  castles  and  palaces,  and  embroidered 
with  parks  and  gardens.  It  does  not  abound  in  grand 
and  sublime  prospects,  but  rather  in  little  home 
scenes  of  rural  repose  and  sheltered  quiet.  Every 
antique  farmhouse  and  moss-grown  cottage  is  a 
picture:  and  as  the  roads  are  continually  winding, 
and  the  view  is  shut  in  by  groves  and  hedges,  the  eye 
is  delighted  by  a  continual  succession  of  small  land- 
scapes of  captivating  loveliness. 

The  great  charm,  however,  of  English  scenery  is 

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RURAL  LIFE  IN  ENGLAND  113 

the  moral  feeling  that  seems  to  pervade  it.  It  is 
associated  in  the  mind  with  ideas  of  order,  of  quiet, 
of  sober  well-established  principles,  of  hoary  usage 
and  reverend  custom.  Everything  seems  to  be  the 
growth  of  ages  of  regular  and  peaceful  existence. 
The  old  church  of  remote  architecture,  with  its  low 
massive  portal;  its  gothic  tower;  its  windows  rich  with 
tracery  and  painted  glass,  in  scrupulous  preservation; 
its  stately  monuments  of  warriors  and  worthies  of 
the  olden  time,  ancestors  of  the  present  lords  of  the 
soil;  its  tombstones,  recording  successive  generations 
of  sturdy  yeomanry,  whose  progeny  still  plough  the 
same  fields,  and  kneel  at  the  same  altar — the  parson- 
age, a  quaint  irregular  pile,  partly  antiquated,  but 
repaired  and  altered  in  the  tastes  of  various  ages  and 
occupants — the  stile  and  footpath  leading  from  the 
churchyard,  across  pleasant  fields,  and  along  shady 
hedgerows,  according  to  an  immemorial  right  of  way 
— ^the  neighboring  village,  with  its  venerable  cottages, 
its  public  green  sheltered  by  trees,  under  which  the 
forefathers  of  the  present  race  have  sported — ^the 
antique  family  mansion,  standing  apart  in  some  little 
rural  domain,  but  looking  down  with  a  protecting 
air  on  the  surrounding  scene:  all  these  common  fea- 
tures of  English  landscape  evince  a  calm  and  settled 
security,  and  hereditary  transmission  of  home-bred 
virtues  and  local  attachments,  that  speak  deeply 
and  touchingly  for  the  moral  character  of  the  nation^ 
It  is  a  pleasing  sight  of  a  Sunday  morning,  when  the 
bell  is  sending  its  sober  melody  across  the  quiet  fields. 

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ri4  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

to  behold  the  peasantry  in  their  best  finery,  with 
ruddy  faces  and  modest  cheerftdness,  thronging  tran- 
quilly along  the  green  lanes  to  church;  but  it  is  still 
more  pleasing  to  see  them  in  the  evenings,  gathering 
about  their  cottage  doors,  and  appearing  to  exult 
in  the  htunble  comforts  and  embellishments  which 
their  own  hands  have  spread  around  them. 

It  is  this  sweet  home-feeling,  this  settled  repose  of 
affection  in  the  domestic  scene,  that  is,  after  all, 
the  parent  of  the  steadiest  virtues  and  purest  enjoy- 
ments; and  I  cannot  close  these  destdtory  remarks 
better,  than  by  quoting  the  words  of  a  modem  English 
poet,  who  has  depicted  it  with  remarkable  felicity: 

Through  each  gradation,  from  the  castled  hall, 
The  city  dome,  the  villa  crown'd  with  shade. 
But  chief  from  modest  mansions  numberless, 
In  town  or  hamlet,  shelt'ring  middle  life, 
Down  to  the  cottaged  vale,  and  straw-roof 'd  shed; 
This  western  isle  hath  long  been  famed  for  scenes 
Where  bliss  domestic  finds  a  dwelling-place; 
Domestic  bliss,  that,  like  a  harmless  dove, 
(Honor  and  sweet  endearment  keeping  guard,) 
Can  centre  in  a  little  quiet  nest 
All  that  desire  would  fly  for  through  the  earth  ; 
That  can,  the  world  eluding,  be  itself 
A  world  enjoy'd;  that  wants  no  witnesses 
But  its  own  sharers,  and  approving  heaven; 
That,  like  a  flower  deep  hid  in  rocky  cleft. 
Smiles,  though  't  is  looking  only  at  the  sky.* 

*  From  a  Poem  on  the  death  of  the  Princess  Charlotte,  by  tho 
Reverend  Rann  Kennedy,  A.M 


yGoogk 


THE  BROKEN  HEART 

I  never  heard 
Of  any  true  affection,  but  't  was  nipt 
With  care,  that,  like  the  caterpillar,  eats 
The  leaves  of  the  spring's  sweetest  book,  the  rose. 

MiDDLBTON. 

It  is  a  common  practice  with  those  who  have 
outlived  the  susceptibility  of  early  feeling,  or  have  been 
brought  up  in  the  gay  heartlessness  of  dissipated  life^ 
to  laugh  at  all  love  stories,  and  to  treat  the  tales  of 
romantic  passion  as  mere  fictions  of  novelists  and 
poets.  My  observations  on  human  nature  have 
induced  me  to  think  otherwise.  They  have  con- 
vinced me  that,  however  the  surface  of  the  character 
may  be  chilled  and  frozen  by  the  cares  of  the  world, 
or  cultivated  into  mere  smiles  by  the  arts  of  society, 
still  there  are  dormant  fires  lurking  in  the  depths  of 
the  coldest  bosom,  which,  when  once  enkindled, 
become  impetuous,  and  are  sometimes  desolating  in 
their  effects.  Indeed,  I  am  a  true  believer  in  the 
blind  deity,  and  go  to  the  full  extent  of  his  doctrines. 
Shall  I  confess  it? — I  believe  in  broken  hearts,  and  the 
possibility  of  dying  of  disappointed  love.  I  do  not, 
however,  consider  it  a  malady  often  fatal  to  my  own 
sex;  but  I  firmly  believe  that  it  withers  down  many  a 
lovely  woman  into  an  early  grave. 

115 

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Ii6  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

Man  is  the  creature  of  interest  and  ambition.  His 
nature  leads  him  forth  into  the*  struggle  and  bustle 
of  the  world.  Love  is  but  the  embellishment  of  his 
early  life,  or  a  song  piped  in  the  intervals  of  the  acts. 
He  seeks  for  fame,  for  fortune,  for  space  in  the  world's 
thought,  and  dominion  over  his  fellow-men.  But  a 
woman's  whole  life  is  a  history  of  the  affections.  The 
heart  is  her  world:  it  is  there  her  ambition  strives  for 
empire;  it  is  there  her  avarice  seeks  for  hidden  treas- 
ures. She  sends  forth  her  sympathies  on  adventure; 
she  embarks  her  whole  soul  in  the  traffic  of  affection; 
and  if  shipwrecked,  her  case  is  hopeless — ^for  it  is  a 
bankruptcy  of  the  heart. 

To  a  man  the  disappointment  of  love  may  occasion 
some  bitter  pangs:  it  wounds  some  feelings  of  tender- 
ness— ^it  blasts  some  prospects  of  felicity;  but  he  is  an 
active  being — ^he  may  dissipate  his  thoughts  in  the 
whirl  of  varied  occupation,  or  may  plunge  into  the 
tide  of  pleasure;  or,  if  the  scene  of  disappointment  be 
too  full  of  painful  associations,  he  can  shift  his  abode 
at  will,  and  taking  as  it  were  the  wings  of  the  morning 
can  **fly  to  the  uttermost  parts  of  the  earth,  and  be  at 
rest." 

But  woman's  is  comparatively  a  fixed,  a  secluded,  and 
meditative  Ufe.  She  is  more  the  companion  of  her  own 
thoughts  and  feelings;  and  if  they  are  turned  to  minis- 
ters of  sorrow,  where  shall  she  look  for  consolation? 
Her  lot  is  to  be  wooed  and  won ;  and  if  unhappy  in  her 
love,  her  heart  is  like  some  fortress  that  has  been  cap- 
tured, and  sacked,  and  abandoned,  and  left  desolate. 

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THE  BROKEN  HEART  ivj 

How  many  bright  eyes  grow  dim — how  many  soft 
cheeks  grow  pale — how  many  lovely  forms  fade  away 
into  the  tomb,  and  none  can  tell  the  cause  that  blighted 
their  loveliness!  As  the  dove  will  clasp  its  wings  to 
its  side,  and  cover  and  conceal  the  arrow'  that  is 
preying  on  its  vitals,  so  is  it  the  nattire  of  woman  to 
hide  from  the  world  the  pangs  of  wounded  affection. 
The  love  of  a  delicate  female  is  always  shy  and  silent. 
Even  when  fortunate,  she  scarcely  breathes  it  to 
herself;  but  when  otherwise,  she  buries  it  in  the  re- 
cesses of  her  bosom,  and  there  lets  it  cower  and  brood 
among  the  ruins  of  her  peace.  With  her  the  desire  of 
the  heart  has  failed.  The  great  charm  of  existence 
is  at  an  end.  She  neglects  all  the  cheerful  exercises 
which  gladden  the  spirits,  quicken  the  pulses,  and 
send  the  tide  of  life  in  healthful  currents  through  the 
veins.  Her  rest  is  broken — the  sweet  refreshment  of 
sleep  is  poisoned  by  melancholy  dreams — '*dry 
sorrow  drinks  her  blood,"  until  her  enfeebled  frame 
sinks  under  the  slightest  external  injury.  Look  for 
her,  after  a  little  while,  and  you  find  friendship  weep- 
ing over,  her  untimely  grave,  and  wondering  that  one 
who  but  lately  glowed  with  all  the  radiance  of  health 
and  beauty  should  so  speedily  be  brought  down  to 
"darkness  and  the  worm. "  You  will  be  told  of  some 
wintry  chill,  some  casual  indisposition,  that  laid  her 
low; — ^but  no  one  knows  of  the  mental  malady  which 
previously  sapped  her  strength,  and  made  her  so 
easy  a  prey  to  the  spoiler. 

She  is  like  some  tender  tree,  the  pride  and  beauty 

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Ii8  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

of  the  grove;  graceful  in  its  form,  bright  in  its  foKage, 
but  with  the  worm  preying  at  its  heart.  We  find  it 
suddenly  withering,  when  it  should  be  most  fresh 
and  luxuriant.  We  see  it  drooping  its  branches  to 
the  earth,  and  shedding  leaf  by  leaf,  until,  wasted  and 
perished  away,  it  falls  even  in  the  stillness  of  the 
forest;  and  as  we  muse  over  the  beautiful  ruin,  we 
strive  in  vain  to  recollect  the  blast  or  thunderbolt  that 
could  have  smitten  it  with  decay. 

I  have  seen  many  instances  of  women  running  to 
waste  and  self-neglect,  and  disappearing  gradually 
from  the  earth,  almost  as  if  they  had  been  exhaled 
to  heaven;  and  have  repeatedly  fancied  that  I  could 
trace  their  death  through  the  various  declensions  of 
consumption,  cold,  debility,  languor,  melancholy, 
until  I  reached  the  first  symptom  of  disappointed  love. 
But  an  instance  of  the  kind  was  lately  told  to  me;  the 
circumstances  are  well  known  in  the  country  where 
they  happened,  and  I  shall  but  give  them  in  the  man- 
ner in  which  they  were  related. 

Every  one  must  recollect  the  tragical  story  of  young 

E , '  the  Irish  patriot ;  it  was  too  touching  to  be  soon 

forgotten.  During  the  troubles  in  Ireland,  he  was 
tried,  condemned,  and  executed,  on  a  charge  of  trea- 
son. His  fate  made  a  deep  impression  on  public 
sympathy.  He  was  so  young — so  intelligent — so 
generous — so  brave — so  everything  that  we  are  apt 
to  like  in  a  young  man.  His  conduct  under  trial,  too, 
was  so  lofty  and  intrepid.  The  noble  indignation 
with  which  he  repelled  the  charge  of  treason  against 

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THE  BROKEN  HEART  119 

his  country — ^the  eloquent  vindication  of  his  name — • 
and  his  pathetic  appeal  to  posterity,  in  the  hopeless 
hour  of  condemnation — all  these  entered  deeply  into 
every  generous  bosom,  and  even  his  enemies  lamented 
the  stem  policy  that  dictated  his  execution. 

But  there  was  one  heart,  whose  anguish  it  would  be 
impossible  to  describe.  In  happier  days  and  fairer 
fortunes,  he  had  won  the  affections  of  a  beautiful 
and  interesting  girl,  the  daughter  of  a  late  cele- 
brated Irish  barrister.  She  loved  him  with  the  dis- 
interested fervor  of  a  woman's  first  and  early  love. 
When  every  worldly  maxim  arrayed  itself  against 
him;  when  blasted  in  fortune,  and  disgrace  and  danger 
darkened  around  his  name,  she  loved  him  the  more 
ardently  for  his  very  stifferings.  If,  then,  his  fate 
could  awaken  the  sympathy  even  of  his  foes,  what 
must  have  been  the  agony  of  her,  whose  whole  soul 
was  occupied  by  his  image!  Let  those  tell  who  have 
had  the  portals  of  the  tomb  suddenly  closed  between 
them  and  the  being  they  most  loved  on  earth — ^who 
have  sat  at  its  threshold,  as  one  shut  out  in  a  cold 
and  lonely  world,  whence  all  that  was  most  lovely 
and  loving  had  departed. 

But  then  the  horrors  of  such  a  grave!  so  frightful, 
so  dishonored !  there  was  nothing  for  memory  to  dwell 
on  that  could  soothe  the  pang  of  separation — ^none  of 
those  tender  though  melancholy  drctmistances,  which 
endear  the  parting  scene — ^nothing  to  melt  sorrow 
into  those  blessed  tears,  sent  like  the  dews  of  heaven 
to  revive  the  heart  in  the  parting  hour  of  anguish. 

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I20  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

To  render  her  widowed  situation  more  desolate, 
she  had  incurred  her  father's  displeasure  by  her  un- 
fortunate attachment,  and  was  an  exile  from  the 
paternal  roof.  But  could  the  sympathy  and  kind 
offices  of  friends  have  reached  a  spirit  so  shocked  and 
driven  in  by  horror,  she  would  have  experienced  no 
want  of  consolation,  for  the  Irish  are  a  people  of  quick 
and  generous  sensibilities.  The  most  delicate  and 
cherishing  attentions  were  paid  her  by  families  of 
wealth  and  distinction.  She  was  led  into  society,  and 
they  tried  by  all  kinds  of  occupation  and  amusement  to 
dissipate  her  grief,  and  wean  her  from  the  tragical 
story  of  her  love.  But  it  was  all  in  vain.  There  are 
some  strokes  of  calamity  which  scathe  and  scorch 
the  soul — ^which  penetrate  to  the  vital  seat  of  happiness 
— and  blast  it,  never  again  to  put  forth  bud  or  blos- 
som. She  never  objected  to  frequent  the  haunts  of 
pleasure,  but  was  as  much  alone  there  as  in  the  depths 
of  solitude;  walking  about  in  a  sad  reverie,  apparently 
unconscious  of  the  world  around  her.  She  carried 
with  her  an  inward  woe  that  mocked  at  all  the  bland- 
ishments of  friendship,  and  ** heeded  not  the  song  of 
the  charmer,  charm  he  never  so  wisely." 

The  person  who  told  me  her  story  had  seen  her  at  a 
masquerade.  There  can  be  no  exhibition  of  far-gone 
wretchedness  more  striking  and  painful  than  to 
meet  it  in  such  a  scene.  To  find  it  wandering  like  a 
spectre,  lonely  and  joyless,  where  all  around  is  gay — 
to  see  it  dressed  out  in  the  trappings  of  mirth,  and 
looking  so  wan  and  woebegone,  as  if  it  had  tried  ia 


yGoogk 


THE  BROKEN  HEART  121 

vain  to  cheat  the  poor  heart  into  a  momentary  for- 
getfukiess  of  sorrow.  After  strolling  through  the 
splendid  rooms  and  giddy  crowd  with  an  air  of  utter 
abstraction,  she  sat  herself  down  on  the  steps  of  an 
orchestra,  and,  looking  about  for  some  time  with  a 
vacant  air,  that  showed  her  insensibility  to  the  garish 
scene,  she  began,  with  the  capriciousness  of  a  sickly 
heart,  to  warble  a  little  plaintive  air.  She  had  an 
exquisite  voice;  but  on  this  occasion' it  was  so  simple, 
so  touching,  it  breathed  forth  such  a  soul  of  wretched- 
ness, that  she  drew  a  crowd  mute  and  silent  around 
her,  and  melted  every  one  into  tears. 

The  story  of  one  so  true  and  tender  could  not  but 
excite  great  interest  in  a  country  remarkable  for 
enthusiasm.  It  completely  won  the  heart  of  a  brave 
ofl5cer,  who  paid  his  addresses  to  her,  and  thought 
that  one  so  true  to  the  dead  could  not  but  prove  af- 
fectionate to  the  living.  She  declined  his  attentions, 
for  her  thoughts  were  irrevocably  engrossed  by  the 
memory  of  her  former  lover.  He,  however,  persisted 
in  his  suit.  He  solicited  not  her  tenderness,  but  her 
esteem.  He  'was  assisted  by  her  conviction  of  his 
worth,  and  her  sense  of  her  own  destitute  and  de- 
pendent situation,  for  she  was  existing  on  the  kindness 
of  friends.  In  a  word,  he  at  length  succeeded  in 
gaining  her  hand,  though  with  the  solemn  assurance, 
that  her  heart  was  unalterably  another's. 

He  took  her  with  him  to  Sicily,  hoping  that  a  change 
of  scene  might  wear  out  the  remembrance  of  early 
woes.    She  was  an  amiable    and    exemplary  wife. 


yGoogk 


122  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

and  made  an  effort  to  be  a  happy  one;  but  nothing 
could  ctire  the  silent  and  devouring  melancholy  that 
had  entered  into  her  very  sotil.  She  wasted  away 
in  a  slow  but  hopeless  decline,  and  at  length  simk 
into  the  grave,  the  victim  of  a  broken  heart. 

It  was  on  her  that  Moore,  the  distinguished  Irish 
poet,  composed  the  following  hnes: 

She  is  far  from  the  land  where  her  young  hero  sleeps. 

And  lovers  around  her  are  sighing  ; 
But  coldly  she  turns  from  their  gaze,  and  weeps. 

For  her  heart  in  his  grave  is  lying. 

She  sings  the  wild  songs  of  her  dear  native  plains. 

Every  note  which  he  loved  awaking — 
Ah !  little  they  think,  who  delight  in  her  strains. 

How  the  heart  of  the  minstrel  is  breaking ! 

He  had  lived  for  his  love — ^for  his  country  he  died, 
They  were  all  that  to  life  had  entwined  him — 

Nor  soon  shall  the  tears  of  his  country  be  dried. 
Nor  long  will  his  love  stay  behind  him ! 

Oh !  make  her  a  grave  where  the  stmbeams  rest, 
When  they  promise  a  glorious  morrow ; 

They  '11  shine  o*er  her  sleep,  like  a  smile  from  the  west, 
From  her  own  loved  island  of  sorrow ! 


yGoogk 


THE  ART  OP  BOOK-MAKING 

If  that  severe  doom  of  Synesius  be  true — "It  is  a  greater 
offence  to  steal  dead  men's  labor,  than  their  clothes,"  what  shall 
become  of  most  writers? 

Burton's  Anatomy  of  Melancholy. 

I  HAVE  often  wondered  at  the  extreme  fecundity 
of  the  press,  and  how  it  comes  to  pass  that  so  many 
heads,  on  which  nature  seemed  to  have  inflicted  the 
curse  of  barrenness,  should  teem  with  volimiinous 
productions.  As  a  man  travels  on,  however,  in  the 
journey  of  life,  his  objects  of  wonder  daily  diminish, 
and  he  is  continually  finding  out  some  very  simple 
cause  for  some  great  matter  of  marvel.  Thus  have 
I  chanced,  in  my  peregrinations  about  this  great  me- 
tropolis, to  blunder  upon  a  scene  which  unfolded  to 
me  some  of  the  mysteries  of  the  book-making  craft, 
and  at  once  put  an  end  to  my  astonishment. 

I  was  one  summer's  day  loitering  through  the  great 
saloons  of  the  British  Museum,  with  that  listlessness 
with  which  one  is  apt  to  saunter  about  a  museum  in , 
warm  weather;  sometimes  lolling  over  the  glass  cases 
of  minerals,  sometimes  studying  the  hieroglyphics  on 
an  Egyptian  mummy,  and  sometimes  trying,  with 
nearly  equal  success,  to  comprehend  the  allegorical 
paintings  on  the  lofty  ceilings.  Whilst  I  was  gazing 
About  in  this  idle  way,  my  attention  was  attracted 

123 

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124  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

to  a  distant  door,  at  the  end  of  a  suite  of  apartments. 
It  was  closed,  but  every  now  and  then  it  would  open, 
and  some  strange-favored  being,  generally  clothed  in 
black,  would  steal  forth,  and  glide  through  the  rooms, 
without  noticing  any  of  the  surrounding  objects. 
There  was  an  air  of  mystery  about  this  that  piqued 
my  languid  curiosity,  and  I  determined  to  attempt 
the  passage  of  that  strait,  and  to  explore  the  unknown 
regions  beyond.  The  door  yielded  to  my  hand, 
with  that  facility  with  which  the  portals  of  enchanted 
castles  yield  to  the  adventurous  knight-errant.  I 
found  myself  in  a  spacious  chamber,  surrounded  with 
great  cases  of  venerable  books.  Above  the  cases, 
and  just  under  the  cornice,  were  arranged  a  great 
number  of  black-looking  portraits  of  ancient  authors. 
About  the  room  were  placed  long  tables,  with  stands 
for  reading  and  writing,  at  which  sat  many  pale, 
studious  personages,  poring  intently  over  dusty 
volumes,  rummaging  among  mouldy  manuscripts, 
and  taking  copious  notes  of  their  contents.  A  hushed 
stillness  reigned  through  this  mysterious  apartment, 
excepting  that  you  might  hear  the  racing  of  pens  over 
sheets  of  paper,  or,  occasionally,  the  deep  sigh  of  one 
of  these  sages,  as  he  shifted  his  position  to  turn  over 
the  page  of  an  old  folio;  doubtless  arising  from  that 
hollowness  and  flatulency  incident  to  learned  research. 
Now  and  then  one  of  these  personages  would 
write  something  on  a  small  slip  of  paper,  and  ring  a 
bell,  whereupon  a  familiar  would  appear,  take  the 
paper  in  profoimd  silence,  glide  out  of  the  room,  and 

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THE  ART  OF  BOOK-MAKING  125 

return  shortly  loaded  with  ponderous  tomes,  upon 
which  the  other  would  fall  tooth  and  nail  with  fam- 
ished voracity.  I  had  no  longer  a  doubt  that  I  had 
happened  upon  a  body  of  magi,  deeply  engaged  in 
the  study  of  occult  sciences.  The  scene  reminded  me 
of  an  old  Arabian  tale,  of  a  philosopher  shut  up  in  an 
enchanted  library,  in  the  bosom  of  a  mountain,  which 
opened  only  once  a  year;  where  he  made  the  spirits  of 
the  place  bring  him  books  of  all  kinds  of  dark  know- 
ledge, so  that  at  the  end  of  the  year,  when  the  magic 
portal  once  more  swung  open  on  its  hinges,  he  issued 
forth  so  versed  in  forbidden  lore,  as  to  be  able  to  soar 
above  the  heads  of  the  multitude,  and  to  control 
the  powers  of  nature. 

My  curiosity  being  now  fully  aroused,  I  whispered 
to  one  of  the  familiars,  as  he  was  about  to  leave  the 
room,  and  begged  an  interpretation  of  the  strange 
scene  before  me.  A  few  words  were  sufficient  for 
the  purpose.  I  found  that  these  mysterious  person-^ 
ages,  whom  I  had  mistaken  for  magi,  were  principally 
authors,  and  in  the  very  act  of  manufacturing  books. 
I  was,  in  fact,  in  the  reading  room  of  the  great  British 
Library — an  immense  collection  of  volumes  of  all 
ages  and  languages,  many  of  which  are  now  forgotten, 
and  most  of  which  are  seldom  read:  one  of  those 
sequestered  pools  of  obsolete  literature,  to  which 
modem  authors  repair,  and  draw  buckets*  full  of 
classic  lore,  or  "pure  English,  undefiled,"^  wherewith 
to  swell  their  own  scanty  rills  of  thought. 
<  Being  now  in  possession  of  the  secret,  I  sat  down  ia 

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126  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

a  comer,  and  watched  the  process  of  this  book  manu- 
facttire.  I  noticed  one  lean,  bilious-looking  wight, 
who  sought  none  but  the  most  worm-eaten  volumes, 
printed  in  black-letter.  He  was  evidently  construct- 
ing some  work  of  profound  erudition,  that  would  be 
purchased  by  every  man  who  wished  to  be  thought 
learned,  placed  upon  a  conspicuous  shelf  of  his  library, 
or  laid  open  upon  his  table;  but  never  read.  I  ob- 
served him,  now  and  then,  draw  a  large  fragment  of 
biscuit  out  of  his  pocket,  and  gnaw;  whether  it  was 
his  dinner,  or  whether  he  was  endeavoring  to  keep 
off  that  exhaustion  of  the  stomach  produced  by  much 
pondering  over  dry  works,  I  leave  to  harder  students 
than  myself  to  determine. 

There  was  one  dapper  little  gentleman  in  bright- 
colored  clothes,  with  a  chirping,  gossiping  expression 
of  countenance,  who  had  all  the  appearance  of  an 
author  on  good  terms  with  his  bookseller.  After 
considering  him  attentively,  I  recognized  in  him  a 
diligent  getter-up  of  miscellaneous  works,  which 
bustled  off  well  with  the  trade.  I  was  curious  to  see 
how  he  manufactured  his  wares.  He  made  more 
stir  and  show  of  business  than  any  of  the  others; 
dipping  into  various  books,  fluttering  over  the  leaves 
of  manuscripts,  taking  a  morsel  out  of  one,  a. morsel 
out  of  another,  ''line  upon  line,  precept  upon  precept, 
here  a  little  and  there  a  little."'  The  contents  of 
his  book  seemed  to  be  as  heterogeneous  as  those  of  the- 
witches*  caldron*  in  Macbeth,  It  was  here  a  finger 
and  there  a  thtmib,  toe  of  frog  and  blind-worm's  stingy 

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THE  ART  OF  BOOK-MAKING  127 

with  his  own  gossip  poured  in  like  ''baboon's  blood/' 
to  make  the  medley  ''slab  and  good. " 

After  all,  thought  I,  may  not  this  pilfering  disposi- 
tion be  implanted  in  authors  for  wise  purposes;  may  it 
not  be  the  way  in  which  Providence  has  taken  care  that 
the  seeds  of  knowledge  and  wisdom  shall  be  preserved 
from  age  to  age,  in  spite  of  the  inevitable  decay  of  the 
works  in  which  they  were  first  produced?  We  see 
that  nature  has  wisely,  though  whimsically,  provided 
for  the  conveyance  of  seeds  from  clime  to -clime,  in  the 
maws  of  certain  birds;  so  that  animals  which,  in  them- 
selves, are  Uttle  better  than  carrion,  and  apparently 
the  lawless  plunderers  of  the  orchard  and  the  cornfield, 
are,  in  fact,  nature's  carriers  to  disperse  and  perpetuate 
her  blessings.  In  like  manner,  the  beauties  and  fine 
thoughts  of  ancient  and  obsolete  authors  are  caught  up 
by  these  flights  of  predatory  writers,  and  cast  forth 
again  to  flourish  and  bear  fruit  in  a  remote  and  distant 
tract  of  time.  Many  of  their  works,  also,  undergo  a 
kind  of  metempsychosis,  and  spring  up  under  new 
forms.  What  was  formerly  a  ponderous  history  re- 
vives in  the  shape  of  a  romance "" — an  old  legend  changes 
into  a  modem  play — and  a  sober  philosophical  treatise 
furnishes  the  body  for  a  whole  series  of  bouncing  and 
sparkling  essays.  Thus  it  is  in  the  clearing  of  our 
American  woodlands;  where  we  bum  down  a  forest 
of  stately  pines,  a  progeny  of  dwarf  oaks  start  up  in 
their  place:  and  we  never  see  the  prostrate  trunk  of  a 
tree  mouldering  into  soil,  but  it  gives  birth  to  a  whole 
tribeof  fungi. 

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128  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

Let  us  not,  then,  lament  over  the  decay  and  oblivion 
into  which  ancient  writers  descend;  they  do  but  sub- 
mit to  the  great  law  of  nature,  which  declares  that  all 
sublunary  shapes  of  matter  shall  be  limited  in  their 
duration,  but  which  decrees,  also,  that  their  elements 
shall  never  perish.  Generation  after  generation,  both 
in  animal  and  vegetable  life,  passes  away,  but  the  vital 
principle  is  transmitted  to  posterity,  and  the  species 
continue  to  flourish.  Thus,  also,  do  authors  beget 
authors,  and  having  produced  a  numerous  progeny,  in 
a  good  old  age  they  sleep  with  their  fathers,  that  is  to 
say,  with  the  authors  who  preceded  them — ^and  from 
whom  they  had  stolen. 

Whilst  I  was  indtilging  in  these  rambling  fancies,  I 
had  leaned  my  head  against  a  pile  of  reverend  folios. 
Whether  it  was  owing  to  the  soporific  emanations  from 
these  works;  or  to  the  profoimd  quiet  of  the  room;  or 
to  the  lassitude  arising  from  much  wandering;  or 
to  an  unlucky  habit  of  napping  at  improper  times  and 
places,  with  which  I  am  grievously  afflicted,  so  it  was, 
that  I  fell  into  a  doze.  Still,  however,  my  imagination 
continued  busy,  and  indeed  the  same  scene  remained 
before  my  mind's  eye,  only  a  little  changed  in  some  of 
the  details.  I  dreamt  that  the  chamber  was  still 
decorated  with  the  portraits  of  ancient  authors,  but 
that  the  number  was  increased.  The  long  tables  had 
disappeared,  and,  in  place  of  the  sage  magi,  I  beheld  a 
ragged,  threadbare  throng,  such  as  maybe  seen  plying 
about  the  great  repository  of  cast-off  clothes,  Mon- 
mouth-street.    Whenever  they  seized  upon  a  book,  by 

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THE  ART  OF  BOOK-MAKING         129 

one  of  those  incongruities  common  to  dreams,  me- 
thought  it  turned  into  a  garment  of  foreign  or  antique 
fashion,  with  which  they  proceeded  to  equip  them- 
selves. I  noticed,  however,  that  no  one  pretended  to 
clothe  himself  from  any  particular  suit,  but  took  a 
sleeve  from  one,  a  cape  from  another,  a  skirt  from  a 
third,  thus  decking  himself  out  piecemeal,  while  some' 
of  his  original  rags  would  peep  out  from  among  his 
borrowed  finery. 

There  was  a  portly,  rosy,  well-fed  parson,  whom  E 
observed  ogling  several  mouldy  polemical  writers; 
through  an  eye-glass.  He  soon  contrived  to  slip  on  the 
voluminous  mantle  of  one  of  the  old  fathers,  and,  hav- 
ing purloined  the  gray  beard  of  another,  endeavored 
•  to  look  exceedingly  wise;  but  the  smirking  common- 
place of  his  countenance  set  at  naught  all  the  trappings 
of  wisdom.  One  sickly-looking  gentleman  was  busied 
embroidering  a  very  flimsy  garment  with  gold  thread 
drawn  out  of  several  old  court-dresses  of  the  reign  of 
Queen  Elizabeth.  Another  had  trimmed  himself 
magnificently  from  an  illuminated  manuscript,  had 
stuck  a  nosegay  in  his  bosom,  culled  from  The 
Paradise  of  Daintie  Devices,^  and  having  put  Sir 
Philip  Sidney's*  hat  on  one  side  of  his  head,  strutted 
oflE  with  an  exquisite  air  of  vulgar  elegance.  A 
third,  who  was  but  of  puny  dimensions,  had  bol- 
stered himself  out  bravely  with  the  spoils  from 
several  obscure  tracts  of  philosophy,  so  that  he 
had  a  very  imposing  front;  but  he  was  lamentably 
tattered  in  rear,  and  I  perceived  that  he  had  patched 
9 

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130  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

tds  small-clothes  with  scraps  of  parchment  from  a 
Latin  author. 

There  were  some  well-dressed  gentlemen,  it  is  true, 
who  only  helped  themselves  to  a  gem  or  so,  which 
sparkled  among  their  own  ornaments,  without  eclips- 
ing them.  Some,  too,  seemed  to  contemplate  the 
costumes  of  the  old  writers,  merely  to  imbibe  their 
principles  of  taste,  and  to  catch  their  air  and  spirit ;  but 
I  grieve  to  say  that  too  many  were  apt  to  array  them- 
selves from  top  to  toe  in  the  patchwork  manner  I  have 
mentioned.  I  shall  not  omit  to  speak  of  one  genius, 
in  drab  breeches  and  gaiters,  and  an  Arcadian  hat, 
who  had  a  violent  propensity  to  the  pastoral,  but 
whose  rural  wanderings  had  been  confined  to  the  clas- 
sic haunts  of  Primrose  Hill,  and  the  solitudes  of  the 
Regent's  Park.'  He  had  decked  himself  in  wreaths 
and  ribbons  from  all  the  old  pastoral  poets,  and,  hang- 
ing his  head  on  one  side,  went  about  with  a  fantastical 
lack-a-daisical  air,  ** babbling  about  green  fields."* 
But  the  personage  that  most  struck  my  attention 
was  a  pragmatical  old  gentleman,  in  clerical  robes, 
with  a  remarkably  large  and  square,  but  bald  head. 
He  entered  the  room  wheezing  and  puffing,  el- 
bowed his  way  through  the  throng,  with  a  look 
of  sturdy  self-confidence,  and  having  laid  hands 
upon  a  thick  Greek  quarto,  clapped  it  upon  his  head, 
and  swept  majestically  away  in  a  formidable  frizzled 
wig. 

In  the  height  of  this  literary  masquerade,  a  cry  sud- 
denly  resounded    from    every   side,   of    "Thieves I 

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THE  ART  OF  BOOK-MAKING  131 

thieves ! "  I  looked,  and  lo !  the  portraits  about  the  wall 
became  animated!  The  old  authors  thrust  out  first 
a  head,  then  a  shoulder,  from  the  canvas,  looked 
down  curiously,  for  an  instant,  upon  the  motley  throng, 
and  then  descended  with  fury  in  their  eyes,  to  claim 
their  rifled  property.  The  scene  of  scampering  and 
hubbub  that  ensued  baffles  all  description.  The  un- 
happy culprits  endeavored  in  vain  to  escape  with  their 
plunder.  On  one  side  might  be  seen  half  a  dozen  old 
monks,  stripping  a  modem  professor ;  on  another,  there 
was  sad  devastation  carried  into  the  ranks  of  modern 
dramatic  writers.  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,^  side  by 
side,  raged  round  the  field  like  Castor  and  Pollux,*  and 
sturdy  Ben  Jonson  enacted  more  wonders  than  when  a 
volunteer  with  the  army  in  Flanders.  As  to  the  dap- 
per little  compiler  of  farragos,  mentioned  some  time 
since,  he  had  arrayed  himself  in  as  many  patches  and 
colors  as  Harlequin,^  and  there  was  as  fierce  a  conten- 
tion of  claimants  about  him  as  about  the  dead  body  of 
Patroclus.  ^  I  was  grieved  to  see  many  men,  to  whom  I 
had  been  accustomed  to  look  up  with  awe  and  rever- 
ence, fain  to  steal  off  with  scarce  a  rag  to  cover  their 
nakedness.  Just  then  my  eye  was  caught  by  the 
pragmatical  old  gentleman  in  the  Greek  grizzled  wig, 
who  was  scrambling  away  in  sore  affright  with  half  a 
score  of  authors  in  full  cry  after  him !  They  were  close 
upon  his  haunches:  in  a  twinkling  off  went  his  wig;  at 
every  turn  some  strip  of  raiment  was  peeled  away ;  un- 
til in  a  few  moments,  from  his  domineering  pomp,  he 
shrunk  into  a  little,  pursy,  "chopped  bald  shot,  "^  and 

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132  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

made  his  exit  with  only  a  few  tags  and  rags  fluttering 
at  his  back. 

There  was  something  so  ludicrous  in  the  catastrophe 
of  this  learned  Theban,  ^  that  I  burst  into  an  immoder- 
ate fit  of  laughter,  which  broke  the  whole  illusion. 
The  tumult  and  the  scuffle  were  at  an  end.  The 
chamber  resumed  its  usual  appearance.  The  old 
authors  shrunk  back  into  their  picture-frames,  and 
hung  in  shadowy  solemnity  along  the  walls.  In  short, 
I  found  myself  wide  awake  in  my  comer,  with  the 
whole  assemblage  of  book-worms  gizing  at  me  with 
astonishment.  Nothing  of  the  dream  had  been  real 
but  my  burst  of  laughter,  a  Sound  never  before  heard 
in  that  grave  sanctuary,  and  so  abhorrent  to  the  ears 
of  wisdom,  as  to  electrify  the  fraternity. 

The  librarian  now  stepped  up  to  me,  and  demanded 
whether  I  had  a  card  of  admission.  At  first  I  did  not 
comprehend  him,  but  I  soon  found  that  the  library 
was  a  kind  of  literary  ''preserve,"  subject  to  game- 
laws,  and  that  no  one  must  presume  to  hunt  there  with- 
out special  license  and  permission.  In  a  word,  I  stood 
convicted  of  being  an  arrant  poacher,  and  was  glad  to 
make  a  precipitate  retreat,  lest  I  should  have  a  whole 
pack  of  authors  let  loose  upon  me. 


yGoogk 


A  ROYAL  POET 

Though  your  body  be  confined, 

And  soft  love  a  prisoner  bound, 
Yet  the  beauty  of  your  mind 

Neither  check  nor  chain  hath  found. 
LfOok  out  nobly,  then,  and  dare 
Even  the  fetters  that  you  wear. 

Fletcher* 

On  a  soft  sunny  morning  in  the  genial  month  of 
May,  I  made  an  excursion  to  Windsor  Castle.  It  is  a 
place  full  of  storied  and  poetical  associations.  The 
very  external  aspect  of  the  proud  old  pile  is  enough 
to  inspire  high  thought.  It  rears  its  irregular  walls 
and  massive  towers,  Uke  a  mtu'al  crown,  round  the 
brow  of  a  lofty  ridge,  waves  its  royal  banner  in  the 
clouds,  and  looks  down,  with  a  lordly  air,  upon 
the  surrounding  world. 

On  this  morning  the  weather  was  of  that  voluptuous 
vernal  kind  which  calls  forth  all  the  latent  romance  of 
a  man's  temperament,  filling  his  mind  with  music,  and 
disposing  him  to  quote  poetry  and  dream  of  beauty. 
In  wandering  through  the  magnificent  saloons  and 
long  echoing  galleries  of  the  castle,  I  passed  with  in- 
difference by  whole  rows  of  portraits  of  warriors  and 
statesmen,  but  lingered  in  the  chamber  where  hang  the 
likenesses  of  the  beauties  which  graced  the  gay  Court 

133 

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134  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

of  Charles  the  Second;^  and  as  I  gazed  upon  them, 
depicted  with  amorous,  half-dishevelled  tresses,  and 
the  sleepy  eye  of  love,  I  blessed  the  pencil  of  Sir  Peter 
Lely,^ which  had  thus  enabled  me  to  bask  in  there- 
fleeted  rays  of  beauty.  In  traversing  also  the  "large 
green  courts,"  with  sunshine  beaming  on  the  gray  walls 
and  glancing  along  the  velvet  turf,  my  mind  was  en- 
grossed with  the  image  of  the  tender,  the  gallant,  but 
hapless  Surrey,^  and  his  account  of  his  loiterings  about 
therri  in  his  stripling  days,  when  enamored  of  the 
Lady  Geraldine — 

With  eyes  cast  up  unto  the  maiden's  tower, 
With  easie  sighs,  such  as  men  draw  in  love. 

In  this  mood  of  mere  poetical  susceptibility,  I  visited 
the  ancient  Keep  of  the  castle,  where  James  the  First 
of  Scotland,^  the  pride  and  theme  of  Scottish  poets  and 
historians,  was  for  many  years  of  his  youth  detained 
a  prisoner  of  state.  It  is  a  large  gray  tower,  that  has 
stood  the  brunt  of  ages,  and  is  still  in  good  preserva- 
tion. It  stands  on  a  mound,  which  elevates  it  above 
the  other  parts  of  the  castle,  and  a  great  flight  of  steps 
leads  to  the  interior.  In  the  armory,  a  Gothic  hall, 
furnished  with  weapons  of  various  kinds  and  ages,  I 
was  shown  a  coat  of  armor  hanging  against  the  wall, 
which  had  once  belonged  to  James.  Hence  I  was 
conducted  up  a  staircase  to  a  suite  of  apartments  of 
faded  magnificence,  hung  with  storied  tapestry,  which 
formed  his  prison,  and  the  scene  of  that  passionate  and 

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A  ROYAL  POET  135 

fanciful  amour,  which  has  woven  into  the  web  of  his 
story  the  magical  hues  of  poetry  and  fiction. 

The  whole  history  of  this  a,miable  but  unfortunate 
prince  is  highly  romantic.  At  the  tender  age  of  eleven 
he  was  sent  from  home  by  his  father,  Robert  III.,  and 
destined  for  the  French  court,  to  be  reared  under 
the  eye  of  the  French  monarch,  secure  from  the 
treachery  and  danger  that  surrounded  the  royal 
house  of  Scotland.  It  was  his  mishap  in  the  course 
of  his  voyage  to  fall  into  the  hands  of  the  English, 
and  he  was  detained  prisoner  by  Henry  IV.,  ^ 
notwithstanding  that  a  truce  existed  between  the 
two  countries. 

The  intelligence  of  his  capture,  coming  in  the  train 
of  many  sorrows  and  disasters,  proved  fatal  to  his 
unhappy  father.  "The  news,"  we  are  told,  "was 
brought  to  him  while  at  supper,  and  did  so  overwhelm 
him  with  grief  that  he  was  almost  ready  to  give  up  the 
ghost  into  the  hands  of  the  servant  that  attended  him. 
But  being  carried  to  his  bedchamber,  he  abstained 
from  all  food,  and  in  three  days  died  of  hunger  and 
grief  at  Rothesay."* 

James  was  detained  in  captivity  about  eighteen 
years;  but  though  deprived  of  personal  liberty,  he  was 
treated  with  the  respect  due  to  his  rank.  Care  was 
taken  to  instruct  him  in  all  the  branches  of  useful 
knowledge  cultivated  at  that  period,  and  to  give  him 
those  mental  and  personal  accomplishments  deemed 


*  Buchanan. 


yGoogk 


136  THE^SKETCH  BOOK 

proper  for  a  prince.  Perhaps,  in  this  respect,  his  im- 
prisonment was  an  advantage,  as  it  enabled  him  to 
apply  himself  the  more  exclusively  to  his  improve- 
ment, and  quietly  to  imbibe  that  rich  fund  of  know- 
ledge, and  to  cherish  those  elegant  tastes,  which  have 
given  such  a  lustre  to  his  memory.  The  picture 
drawn  of  him  in  early  life,  by  the  Scottish  historians, 
is  highly  captivating,  and  se^ms  rather  the  description 
of  a  hero  of  romance,  than  of  a  character  in  real  his- 
tory. He  was  well  learnt,  we  are  told,  **  to  fight  with 
the  sword,  to  joust,  to  tourney,  to  wrestle,  to  sing  and 
dance;  he  was  an  expert  mediciner,  right  crafty  in 
plajdng  both  of  lute  and  harp,  and  sundry  other  in- 
stnmients  of  music,  and  was  expert  in  grammar,  ora- 
tory, and  poetry."* 

With  this  combination  of  manly  and  delicate  ac- 
complishments, fitting  him  to  shine  both  in  active  and 
elegant  Ufe,  and  calculated  to  give  him  an  intense  relish 
for  joyous  existence,  it  must  have  been  a  severe  trial, 
in  an  age  of  bustle  and  chivalry,  to  pass  the  spring- 
time of  his  years  in  monotonous  captivity.  It  was 
the  good  fortune  of  James,  however,  to  be  gifted  with 
a  powerful  poetic  fancy,  and  to  be  visited  in  his  prison 
by  the  choicest  inspirations  of  the  muse.  Some  minds 
corrode  and  grow  inactive,  under  the  loss  of  personal 
liberty;  others  grow  morbid  and  irritable;  but  it  is  the 
nature  of  the  poet  to  become  tender  and  imaginative 
in  the  loneliness  of  confinement.     He  banquets  upon 

*  Ballenden's  Translation  of  Hector  Boyce. 

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A  ROYAL  POET  137 

the  honey  of  his  own  thoughts,  and,  like  the  captive 
bird,  potirs  forth  his  soul  in  melody. 

Have  you  not  seen  the  nightingale, 

A  pilgrim  coop'd  into  a  cage, 
How  doth  she  chant  her  wonted  tale, 
In  that  her  lonely  hermitage! 
Even  there  her  charming  melody  doth  prove 
That  all  her  boughs  are  trees,  her  cage  a  grove.* 

Indeed,  it  is  the  divine  attribute  of  the  imagination 
that  it  is  irrepressible,  unconfinable;  that  when  the 
real  worid  is  shut  out,  it  can  create  a  worid  for  itself, 
and  with  a  necromantic  power  can  conjtire  up  glorious 
shapes  and  forms,  and  brilliant  visions,  to  make  soli- 
tude populous,  and  irradiate  the  gloom  of  the  dungeon. 
Such  was  the  world  of  pomp  and  pageant  that  lived 
round  Tasso  in  his  dismal  cell  at  Ferrara, '  when  he  con- 
ceived the  splendid  scenes  of  his  Jerusalem;  and  we  may 
consider  the  "  King's  Quair,*' ^composed  by  James,  dur- 
ing his  captivity  at  Windsor,  as  another  of  those  beau- 
tiful breakings-forth  of  the  soul  from  the  restraint  and 
gloom  of  the  prison  house. 

The  subject  of  the  poem  is  his  love  for  the  Lady  Jane 
Beaufort,  daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Somerset,  and  a 
princess  of  the  blood  royal  of  England,  of  whom  he 
became  enamored  in  the  course  of  his  captivity.  What 
gives  it  a  peculiar  value,  is  that  it  may  be  considered  a 
transcript  of  the  royal  bard's  true  feelings,  and  the 

♦  Roger  L'Estrange. 

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138  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

story  of  his  real  loves  and  fortunes.  It  is  not  often 
that  sovereigns  write  poetry,  or  that  poets  deal  in  fact. 
It  is  gratifying  to  the  pride  of  a  common  man  to  find 
a  monarch  thus  suing,  as  it  were,  for  admission  into 
his  closet,  and  seeking  to  win  his  favor  by  adminis- 
tering to  his  pleasures.  It  is  a  proof  of  the  honest 
equality  of  intellectual  competition,  which  strips  off 
all  the  trappings  of  factitious  dignity,  brings  the  candi- 
date down  to  a  level  with  his  fellow-men,  and  obliges 
him  to  depend  on  his  own  native  powers  for  distinction. 
It  is  curious,  too,  to  get  at  the  history  of  a  monarch's 
heart,  and  to  find  the  simple  affections  of  human 
nature  throbbing  under  the  ermine.  But  James  had 
learnt  to  be  a  poet  before  he  was  a  king:  he  was 
schooled  in  adversity,  and  reared  in  the  company  of  his 
own  thoughts.  Monarchs  have  seldom  time  to  parley 
with  their  hearts,  or  to  meditate  their  minds  into  po- 
etry; and  had  James  been  brought  up  amidst  the  ad- 
ulation and  gayety  of  a  court,  we  should  never,  in  all 
probability,  have  had  such  a  poem  as  the  Quair. 

I  have  been  particularly  interested  by  those  parts  of 
the  poem  which  breathe  his  immediate  thoughts  con- 
cerning his  situation,  or  which  are  connected  with  the 
apartment  in  the  tower.  They  have  thus  a  personal 
and  local  charm,  and  are  given  with  such  circumstantial 
truth,  as  to  make  the  reader  present  with  the  captive 
in  his  prison,  and  the  companion  of  his  meditations. 

Such  is  the  account  which  he  gives  of  his  weariness 
of  spirit,  and  of  the  incident  which  first  suggested  the 
idea  of  writing  the  poem.     It  was  the  still  midwatch 

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A  ROYAL  POET  139 

of  a  clear  moonlight  night;  the  stars,  he  says,  were 
twinkling  as  fire  in  the  high  vault  of  heaven;  and 
'*  Cynthia  rinsing  her  golden  locks  in  Aquaritis. "  He 
lay  in  bed  wakeful  and  restless,  and  took  a  book  to 
beguile  the  tedious  hours.  The  book  he  chose  was 
Boetius'  Consolations  of  Philosophy,^  a  work  popular 
among  the  writers  of  that  day,  and  which  had  been 
translated  by  his  great  prototype  Chaucer.  *  From  the 
high  eulogium  in  which  he  indulges,  it  is  evident  this 
was  one  of  his  favorite  volumes  while  in  prison:  and 
indeed  it  is  an  admirable  text-book  for  meditation 
under  adversity.  It  is  the  legacy  of  a  noble  and  en- 
during spirit,  purified  by  sorrow  and  suflEering,  be- 
queathing to  its  successors  in  calamity  the  maxims  of 
sweet  morality  and  the  trains  of  eloquent  but  simple 
reasoning,  by  which  it  was  enabled  to  bear  up  against 
the  various  ills  of  life.  It  is  a  talisman,  which  the 
unfortunate  may  treasure  up  in  his  bosom,  or,  like  the 
good  King  James,  lay  upon  his  nightly  pillow. 

After  closing  the  volume,  he  turns  its  contents  over 
in  his  mind,  and  gradually  falls  into  a  fit  of  musing 
on  the  fickleness  of  fortune,  the  vicissitudes  of  his 
own  life,  and  the  evils  that  had  overtaken  him  even 
in  his  tender  youth.  Suddenly  he  hears  the  bell  ring- 
ing to  matins;  but  its  sound,  chiming  in  with  his  melan- 
choly fancies,  seems  to  him  like  a  voice  exhorting  him 
to  write  his  story.  In  the  spirit  of  poetic  errantry  he 
determines  to  comply  with  this  intimation :  he  therefore 
takes  pen  in  hand,  makes  with  it  a  sign  of  the  cross  to 
implore  a  benediction,  and  sallies  forth  into  the  fairy 

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140  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

land  of  poetry.  There  is  something  extremely  fanciful 
in  all  this,  and  it  is  interesting  as  furnishing  a  striking 
and  beautiful  instance  of  the  simple  manner  in  which 
whole  trains  of  poetical  thought  are  sometimes  awak- 
ened, and  Uterary  enterprises  suggested  to  the  mind. 
In  the  course  of  his  poem  he  more  than  once  bewails 
the  peculiar  hardness  of  his  fate;  thus  doomed  to 
lonely  and  inactive  life,  and  shut  up  from  the  freedom 
and  pleasure  of  the  world,  in  which  the  meanest  animal 
indulges  imrestrained.  There  is  a  sweetness,  however, 
in  his  very  complaints;  they  are  the  lamentations  of 
an  amiable  and  social  spirit  at  being  denied  the  indul- 
gence of  its  kind  and  generous  propensities;  there  is 
nothing  in  them  harsh  nor  exaggerated ;  they  flow  with 
a  natural  and  touching  pathos,  and  are  perhaps  ren- 
dered more  touching  by  their  simple  brevity.  They 
contrast  finely  with  those  elaborate  and  iterated  re- 
pinings  which  we  sometimes  meet  with  in  poetry; — 
the  effusions  of  morbid  minds  sickening  tmder  miseries 
of  their  own  creating,  and  venting  their  bitterness 
upon  an  unoffending  world.  James  speaks  of  his 
privations  with  acute  sensibility,  but  having  men- 
tioned them  passes  on,  as  if  his  manly  mind  disdained 
to  brood  over  unavoidable  calamities.  When  such  a 
spirit  breaks  forth  into  complaint,  however  brief,  we 
are  aware  how  great  must  be  the  suffering  that  extorts 
the  murmur.  We  sjnnpathize  with  James,  a  romantic, 
active,  and  accomplished  prince,  cut  off  in  the  lusti- 
hood' of  youth  from  all  the  enterprise,  the  noble  uses, 
and  vigorous  delights  of  life;  as  we  do  with  Milton, 

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A  ROYAL  POET  141 

alive  to  all  the  beauties  of  nature  and  glories  of 
art,  when  he  breathes  forth  brief,  but  deep-toned, 
lamentations  over  his  perpetual  blindness. 

Had  not  James  evinced  a  deficiency  of  poetic  arti- 
fice, we  might  almost  have  suspected  that  these  lower- 
ings  of  gloomy  reflection  were  meant  as  preparative  to 
the  brightest  scene  of  his  story;  and  to  contrast  with 
that  refulgence  of  light  and  loveliness,  that  exhilarat- 
ing accompaniment  of  bird  and  song,  and  foliage  and 
flower,  and  all  the  revel  of  the  year,  with  which  he  ushers 
in  the  lady  of  his  heart.  It  is  this  scene,  in  particular, 
which  throws  all  the  magic  of  romance  about  the  old 
Castle  Keep.  He  had  risen,  he  says,  at  daybreak,  accor- 
ding to  custom,  to  escape  from  the  dreary  meditations 
of  a  sleepless  pillow.  ''Bewailing  in  his  chamber  thus 
alone,"  despairing  of  all  joy  and  remedy,  '*fortired  of 
thought  and  wobegone, "  he  had  wandered  to  the  win- 
dow, to  indulge  the  captive's  miserable  solace  of  gazing 
wistfully  upon  the  world  from  which  he  is  excluded. 
The  window  looked  forth  upon  a  small  garden  which  lay 
at  the  foot  of  the  tower.  It  was  a  quiet,  sheltered  spot, 
adorned  with  arbors  and  green  alleys,  and  protected 
from  the  passing  gaze  by  trees  and  hawthorn  hedges. 

Now  was  there  made,  fast  by  the  tower's  wall, 
A  garden  faire,  and  in  the  comers  set 

An  arbour  green  with  wandis  long  and  small 
Railed  about,  and  so  with  leaves  beset 

Was  all  the  place  and  hawthorn  hedges  knet. 
That  lyf*  was  none,  walkyng  there  forbye 
That  might  within  scarce  any  wight  espye. 
.  *  Lyf,  person. 

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142  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

So  thick  the  branches  and  the  leves  grene, 
Beshaded  all  the  alleys  that  there  were, 

And  midst  of  every  arbour  might  be  sene 
The  sharpe,  grene,  swete  juniper, 

Growing  so  fair,  with  branches  here  and  there, 
That  as  it  seemed  to  a  lyf  without, 
The  boughs  did  spread  the  arbour  all  about. 

And  on  the  small  grene  twistis*  set 
The  lytel  swete  nightingales,  and  sung 

go  loud  and  clear,  the  h)minis  consecrate 
Of  lovis  use,  now  soft,  now  loud  among, 

That  all  the  garden  and  the  wallis  rung 

Right  of  their  song 

•  It  was  the  month  of  May, '  when  everjrthing  was  in 
bloom;  and  he  interprets  the  song  of  the  nightingale 
into  the  language  of  his  enamored  feeling: 

Worship,  all  ye  that  lovers  be,  this  May, 
For  of  your  bliss  the  kalends  are  begun. 

And  sing  with  us,  away,  winter,  away. 
Come,  summer,  come,  the  sweet  season  and  sun. 


As  he  gazes  on  the  scene,  and  listens  to  the  notes 
of  the  birds,  he  gradually  relapses  into  one  of  those 
tender  and  undefinable  reveries  which  fill  the  youth- 
ful bosom  in  this  delicious  season.  He  wonders  what 
this  love  may  be,  of  which  he  has  so  often  read,  and 

*  Twistis,  small  boughs  or  twigs. 

Note. — The  language  of  thft  quotations  is  generally  modernized 


yGoogk 


A  ROYAL  POET  143 

which  thus  seems  breathed  forth  in  the  quickening 
breath  of  May  and  melting  all  nature  into  ecstasy  and 
song.  If  it  really  be  so  great  a  felicity,  and  if  it  be  a 
boon  thus  generally  dispensed  to  the  most  insignificant 
beings,  why  is  he  alone  cut  oflE  from  its  enjoyments? 

Oft  would  I  think,  O  Lord,  what  may  this  be, 
That  love  is  of  such  noble  myght  and  kynde? 

Loving  his  folke,  and  such  prosperitee 
Is  it  of  him,  as  we  in  books  do  find: 
May  he  oure  hertes  setten*  and  unbynd: 

Hath  he  upon  our  hertes  such  maistrye? 

Or  is  all  this  but  fejmit  fantasye? 

For  giff  he  be  of  so  grete  excellence, 

That  he  of  every  wight  hath  care  and  charge. 

What  have  I  giltf  to  him,  or  done  offense. 
That  I  am  thral'd,  and  birdis  go  at  large? 

In  the  midst  of  his  musing,  as  he  casts  his  eye  down- 
ward, he  beholds  ''the  fairest  and  the  freshest  young 
flotire"  that  ever  he  had  seen.  It  is  the  lovely  Lady 
Jane,  walking  in  the  garden  to  enjoy  the  beauty  of 
that  "fresh  May  morrowe."  Breaking  thus  sud- 
denly upon  his  sight,  in  the  moment  of  loneliness  and 
excited  susceptibility,  she  at  once  captivates  the  fancy 
of  the  romantic  prince,  and  becomes  the  object  of 
his  wandering  wishes,  the  sovereign  of  his  ideal  world. 
There  is,  in  this  charming  scene,  an  evident  re- 
semblance to  the  early  part  of  Chaucer's  Knight's 
Tale;'  where  Palamon  and  Arcite  fall  in  love  with 

*  SeUeUf  incline.  t  Gilt,  what  injury  have  I  done,  etc. 

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144  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

Emilia,  whom  they  see  walking  in  the  garden  of  their 
prison.  Perhaps  the  similarity  of  the  actual  fact  to 
the  incident  which  he  had  read  in  Chaucer  may  have 
induced  James  to  dwell  on  it  in  his  poem.  His  de- 
scription of  the  Lady  Jane  is  given  in  the  picturesque 
and  minute  manner  of  his  master;  and  being  doubtless 
taken  from  the  life,  is  a  perfect  portrait  of  a  beauty  of 
that  day.  He  dwells,  with  the  fondness  of  a  lover,  on 
every  article  of  her  apparel,  from  the  net  of  pearl, 
splendent  with  emeralds  and  sapphires,  that  confined 
her  golden  hair,  even  to  the  '*  goodly  chaine  of  small  or- 
feverye"*  about  her  neck,  whereby  there  hung  a  ruby 
in  shape  of  a  heart,  that  seemed,  he  says,  like  a  spark 
of  fire  burning  upon  her  white  bosom.  Her  dress  of 
white  tissue  was  looped  up  to  enable  her  to  walk  with 
more  freedom.  She  was  accompanied  by  two  female 
attendants,  and  about  her  sported  a  little  hound  deco- 
rated with  bells;  probably  the  small  Italian  hound  of 
exquisite  symmetry,  which  was  a  parlor  favorite  and  pet 
among  the  fashionable  dames  of  ancient  times.  James 
closes  his  description  by  a  burst  of  general  eulogium: 

In  her  was  youth,  beauty,  with  humble  port, 

Bounty,  richesse,  and  womanly  feature; 
God  better  knows  than  my  pen  can  report, 

Wisdom,  largesse,  t  estate,t  and  cunning  §  sure. 
In  every  point  so  guided  her  measure. 

In  word,  in  deed,  in  shape,  in  countenance. 
That  nature  might  no  more  her  child  advance. 

*  Wrought  gold.  t  Largesse^  bounty. 

t  EskUe,  dignity.  §  Cunnings  discretion. 


yGoogk 


A  ROYAL  POET  145 

The  departiire  of  the  Lady  Jane  from  the  garden  puts 
an  end  to  this  transient  riot  of  the  heart.  With  her 
departs  the  amorous  illusion  that  had  shed  a  tem- 
porary charm  over  the  scene  of  his  captivity,  and  he 
relapses  into  loneliness,  now  rendered  tenfold  more 
intolerable  by  this  passing  beam  of  unattainable 
beauty.  Through  the  long  and  weary  day  he  repines 
at  his  unhappy  lot,  and  when  evening  approaches,  and 
Phoebus,  as  he  beautifully  expresses  it,  had  '*  bade  fare- 
well to  every  leaf  and  flower/'  he  still  lingers  at  the 
window,  and,  laying  his  head  upon  the  cold  stone, 
gives  vent  to  a  mingled  flow  of  love  and  sorrow,  until, 
gradually  lulled  by  the  mute  melancholy  of  the  twi- 
light hour,  he  lapses,  '*half  sleeping,  half  swoon," 
into  a  vision,  which  occupies  the  remainder  of  the  poem 
and  in  which  is  allegorically  shadowed  out  the  history 
of  his  passion. 

When  he  wakes  from  his  trance,  he  rises  from  his 
stony  pillow,  and,  pacing  his  apartment,  full  of  dreary 
reflections,  questions  his  spirit,  whither  it  has  been 
wandering;  whether,  indeed,  all  that  has  passed 
before  his  dreaming  fancy  has  been  conjured  up  by 
preceding  circumstances;  or  whether  it  is  a  vision, 
intended  to  comfort  and  assure  him  in  his  des-. 
pondency.  If  the  latter,  he  prays  that  some  token 
may  be  sent  to  confirm  the  promise  of  happier 
dajrs,  given  him  in  his  slumbers.  Suddenly,  a  turtle 
dove,  of  the  purest  whiteness,  comes  flying  in  at 
the  window,  and  alights  upon  his  hand,  bearing  in 
her  bill  a  branch  of  red  gilliflower,  on  the  leaves  of 
le 

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146  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

which  is  written,  in  letters  of  gold,  the  following 
sentence: 

Awake!  awake!  I  bring,  lover,  I  bring 
The  newis  glad  that  blissful  is,  arid  sure 

Of  thy  comfort;  now  laugh,  and  play,  and  sing. 
For  in  the  heaven  decretit  is  thy  cure. 

He  receives  the  branch  with  mingled  hope  and 
dread;  reads  it  with  rapture:  and  this,  he  says,  was  the 
first  token  of  his  succeeding  happiness.  Whether  this 
is  a  mere  poetic  fiction,  or  whether  the  Lady  Jane  did 
actually  send  him  a  token  of  her  favor  in  this  romantic 
way,  remains  to  be  determined  according  to  the  faith 
or  fancy  of  the  reader.  He  concludes  his  poem  by 
intimating  that  the  promise  conveyed  in  the  vision 
and  by  the  flower  is  fulfilled,  by  his  being  restored 
to  liberty,  and  made  happy  in  the  possession  of  the 
sovereign  of  his  heart. 

Such  is  the  poetical  account  given  by  James  of  his 
love  adventures  in  Windsor  Castle.  ^  How  much  of  it 
is  absolute  fact,  and  how  much  the  embellishment  of 
fancy,  it  is  fruitless  to  conjecture:  let  us  not,  however, 
reject  every  romantic  incident  as  incompatible  with 
real  life;  but  let  us  sometimes  take  a  poet  at  his  word. 
I  have  noticed  merely  those  parts  of  the  poem  im- 
mediately connected  with  the  tower,  and  have  passed 
over  a  large  part,  written  in  the  allegorical  vein,  so 
much  cultivated  at  that  day.  The  language,  of  cotirse, 
is  quaint  and  antiquated,  so  that  the  beauty  of  many 
of  its  golden  phrases  will  scarcely  be  perceived  at  the 

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A  ROYAL  POET  147 

present  day;  but  it  is  impossible  not  to  be  charmed 
with  the  genuine  sentiment,  the  delightful  artlessness 
and  urbanity,  which  prevail  throughout  it.  The  de- 
scriptions of  nature  too,  with  which  it  is  embellished, 
are  given  with  a  truth,  a  discrimination,  and  a  fresh- 
ness worthy  of  the  most  cultivated  periods  of  the  art. 

As  an  amatory  poem,  it  is  edifjdng  in  these  days  of 
coarser  thinking  to  notice  the  nature,  refinement,  and 
exquisite  delicacy  which  pervade  it;  banishing  every 
gross  thought  or  immodest  expression,  and  presenting 
female  loveliness,  clothed  in  all  its  chivalrous  attri- 
butes of  almost  supernatural  purity  and  grace. 

James  flourished  nearly  about  the  time  of  Chaucer 
and  Gower,  and  was  evidently  an  admirer  and  studier 
of  their  writings.  Indeed,  in  one  of  his  stanzas  he 
acknowledges  them  as  his  masters;  and,  in  some  parts 
of  his  poem,  we  find  traces  of  similarity  to  their  produc- 
tions, more  especially  to  those  of  Chaucer.  There 
are  always,  however,  general  features  of  resemblance 
in  the  works  of  contemporary  authors,  which  are  not 
so  much  borrowed  from  each  other  as  from  the  times. 
Writers,  like  bees,  toll  their  sweets  in  the  wide  world; 
they  incorporate  with  their  own  conceptions  the  anec- 
dotes and  thoughts  current  in  society;  and  thus  each 
generation  has  some  features  in  common,  charac- 
teristic of  the  age  in  which  it  lived. 

James  belongs  to  one  of  the  most  brilliant  eras  of  ouf 
literary  history,  and  establishes  the  claims  of  his  coun- 
try to  a  participation  in  its  primitive  honors.  Whilst 
a  small  cluster  of  English  writers  are  constantly  cited 

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148  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

as  the  fathers  of  oiir  verse,  the  name  of  their  great 
Scottish  compeer  is  apt  to  be  passed  over  in  silence; 
but  he  is  evidently  worthy  of  being  enrolled  in  that 
little  constellation  of  remote  but  never-failing  lumi- 
naries, who  shine  in  the  highest  firmament  of  literature 
and  who,  like  morning  stars,  sang  together  at  the 
bright  dawning  of  British  poesy. 

Such  of  my  readers  as  may  not  be  familiar  with  Scot- 
tish history  (though  the  manner  in  which  it  has  of 
late  been  woven  with  captivating  fiction  has  made  it  a 
universal  study)  may  be  curious  to  learn  something 
of  the  subsequent  history  of  James,  and  the  fortunes 
of  his  love.  His  passion  for  the  Lady  Jane,  as  it  was 
the  solace  of  his  captivity,  so  it  faciUtated  his  release, 
it  being  imagined  by  the  court  that  a  connection  with 
the  blood  royal  of  England  would  attach  him  to  its 
own  interests.  He  was  ultimately  restored  to  his 
Uberty  and  crown,  having  previously  espoused  the 
Lady  Jane,  who  accompanied  him  to  Scotland,  and 
made  him  a  most  tender  and  devoted  wife. 

He  found  his  kingdom  in  great  confusion,  the  feudal 
chieftains  having  taken  advantage  of  the  troubles 
and  irregularities  of  a  long  interregnuraJfe,  strengthen 
themselves  in  their  possessions,  and  pracft  them- 
selves above  the  power  of  the  laws.  James  sought  to 
foimd  the  basis  of  his  power  in  the  affections  of  his 
people.  He  attached  the  lower  orders  to  him  by  the 
reformation  of  aBB^es,  the  temperate  and  equable  ad- 
ministration oP^tice,  the  encouragement  of  the  arts 
of  peace,  and  the  promotion  of  everything  that  could 

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A  ROYAL  POET  149 

diffuse  comfort,  competency,  and  innocent  enjoyment 
through  the  himiblest  ranks  of  soci|^y.  He  mingled 
occasionally  amoiag  the  common  people  in  disguise; 
visited  their  firesides;  entered  into  their  cares,  their 
pursuits,  and  their  amusements;  informed  himself  of 
the  mechanical  arts,  and  how  they  could  best  be  pat-  • 
ronized  and  improved;  and  was  thus  an  all-pervading 
spirit,  watching  with  a  benevolent  eye  over  the  meanest 
of  his  subjects.  Having  in  this  generous  manner 
made  himself  strong  in  the  hearts  of  the  common 
people,  he  turned  himself  to  cxirb  the  power  of  the 
factious  nobiHf^;  to  strip  them  of  those  dangerous  im- 
munities which^^ey  had  usurped;  to  punish  such  as 
had  been  gmLtffK  flagrant  offences;  and  to  bring  the 
whole  into  proper  obedience  to  the  crown.  For  some 
time  they  bore  this  with  outward  submission,  but  with 
secret  impatience  and  brooding  resentment.  A  con- 
spiracy was  at  length  formed  against  his  life,  at  the 
head  of  which  was  his  own  uncle,  Robert  Stewart, 
Earl  of  Athol,  who,  being  too  old  himself  for  the 
perpetration  of  the  deed  of  blood,  instigated  his 
grandson  Sir  Robert  Stewart,  together  with  Sir 
Robert*  Gjah^am,  and  others  of  less  note,  to  commit 
th^  Jfeed.  They  broke  into  his  bedchamber  at 
the  Dominican  Convent  near  Perth,  where  he  was 
residjr^,  and  barbarously  murdered  him  by  oft- 
repeatl^  wounds.  His  faithftd  queen,  rushing  to 
throw  her  tender  body  between  him  and  the  sword, 
was  twice  wounded  in  the  ineffectual  attempt  to 
shield  him  from^tlt^vassassin;  and  it  was  not  tmtil 

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ISO  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

she  had  been  forcibly  torn  from  his  person  that  the 
murder  was  accomplished. 

It  was  the  recollection  of  this  romantic  tale  of 
former  times,  and  of  the  golden  little  poem  which  had 
its  birthplace  in  this  Tower,  that  made  me  visit  the 
old  pile  with  more  than  common  interest.  The  suit 
of  armor  hanging  up  in  the  hall,  richly  gilt  and  em- 
bellished, as  if  to  figure  in  the  tourney,  brought  the 
image  of  the  gallant  and  romantic  prince  vividly  be- 
fore my  imagination.  I  paced  the  deserted  chambers 
where  he  had  composed  his  poem;  I  leaned  upon  the 
window,  and  endeavored  to  persuade  myself  it  was  the 
very  one  where  he  had  been  visited  by  his  vision;  I 
looked  out  upon  the  spot  where  he  had  first  seen  the 
Lady  Jane.  It  was  the  same  genial  and  joyous  month ; 
the  birds  were  again  vying  with  each  other  in  strains 
of  liquid  melody;  everything  was  bursting  into  vege- 
tation, and  budding  forth  the  tender  promise  of  the 
year.  Time,  which  delights  to  obliterate  the  sterner 
memorials  of  human  pride,  seems  to  have  passed 
lightly  over  this  little  scene  of  poetry  and  love,  and  to 
have  withheld  his  desolating  hand.  Several  centuries 
have  gone  by,  yet  the  garden  still  flourishes  at  the  foot 
of  the  Tower.  It  occupies  what  was  once  the  moat  of 
the  Keep;  and  though  some  parts  have  been  separated 
by  dividing  walls,  yet  others  have  still  their  arbors 
and  shaded  walks,  as  in  the  days  of  James,  and  the 
whole  is  sheltered,  blooming,  and  retired.  There  is  a 
charm  about  a  spot  that  has  been  printed  by  the  foot- 
steps of  departed  beauty,  and  consecrated  by  the  in- 

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A  ROYAL  POET  15X 

spirations  of  the  poet,  which  is  heightened,  rather  than 
impaired,  by  the  lapse  of  ages.  It  is,  indeed,  the  gift 
of  poetry  to  hallow  every  place  in  which  it  moves;  to 
breathe  around  natiire  an  odor  more  exqtdsite  than 
the  perftmie  of  the  rose,  and  to  shed  over  it  a  tint  more 
magical  than  the  blush  of  morning. 

Others  may  dwell  on  the  illustrious  deeds  of  James 
as  a  warrior  and  legislator;  but  I  have  delighted  to 
view  him  merely  as  the  companion  of  his  fellow-men, 
the  benefactor  of  the  human  heart,  stooping  from  his 
high  estate  to  sow  the  sweet  flowers  of  poetry  and  song 
in  the  paths  of  common  life.  He  was  the  first  to  cul- 
tivate the  vigorous  and  hardy  plant  of  Scottish  genius, 
which  has  since  become  so  prolific  of  the  most  whole- 
some and  highly-flavored  fruit.  He  carried  with  him 
into  the  sterner  regions  of  the  north  all  the  fertilizing 
arts  of  southern  refinement.  He  did  everything  in 
his  power  to  win  his  cotmtr3mien  to  the  gay,  the  ele- 
gant, and  gentle  arts,  which  soften  and  refine  the 
character  of  a  people,  and  wreathe  a  grace  rotind  the 
loftiness  of  a  proud  and  warlike  spirit.  He  wrote 
many  poems,  which,  unfortunately  for  the  ftdness  of 
his  fame,  are  now  lost  to  the  world;  one,  which  is  still 
preserved,  called  **  Christ's  Kirk  of  the  Green, "  ^  shows 
how  diligently  he  had  made  himself  acquainted  with 
the  rustic  sports  and  pastimes  which  constitute  such 
a  source  of  kind  and  social  feeling  among  the  Scot- 
tish peasantry;  and  with  what  simple  and  happy 
humor  he  cotdd  enter  into  their  enjoyments.  He  con- 
tributed greatly  to  improve  the  national  music;  and 

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152  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

traces  of  his  tender  sentiment,  and  elegant  taste,  are 
said  to  exist  in  those  witching  airs  still  piped  among 
the  wild  moimtains  and  lonely  glens  of  Scotland.  He 
has  thus  connected  his  image  with  whatever  is  most 
gracious  and  endearing  in  the  national  character;  he 
has  embalmed  his  memory  in  song,  and  floated  his 
name  to  after  ages  in  the  rich  streams  of  Scottish 
melody.  The  recollection  of  these  things  was  kindling 
at  my  heart  as  I  paced  the  silent  scene  of  his  Imprison- 
ment. I  have  visited  Vaucluse  ^  with  as  much  enthusi- 
asm as  a  pilgrim  would  visit  the  shrine  at  Loretto,* 
but  I  have  never  felt  more  poetical  devotion  than  when 
contemplating  the  old  Tower  and  the  little  garden  at 
Windsor,  and  musing  over  the  romantic  loves  of  the 
Lady  Jane  and  the  Royal  Poet  of  Scotland. 


yGoogk 


THE  COUNTRY  CHURCH 

A  gentleman! 
What,  o*  the  woolpack?  or  the  sugar-chest? 
Or  lists  of  velvet?  which  is 't,  pound,  or  yard, 
You  vend  your  gentry  by? 

Begga&'s  Bush. 

There  are  few  places  more  favorable  to  the  study 
of  character  than  an  English  country  church.  I  was 
once  passing  a  few  weeks  at  the  seat  of  a  friend,  who 
resided  in  the  vicinity  of  one,  the  appearance  of  which 
particularly  struck  my  fancy.  It  was  one  of  those  rich 
morsels  of  quaint  antiquity  which  give  such  a  peculiar 
charm  to  English  landscape.  It  stood  in  the  midst  of 
a  country  filled  with  ancient  families,  and  contained, 
within  its  cold  and  silent  aisles,  the  congregated  dust 
of  many  noble  generations.  The  interior  walls  were 
incrusted  with  monuments  of  every  age  and  style. 
The  Kght  streamed  through  windows  dimmed  with 
armorial  bearings,  richly  emblazoned  in  stained  glass. 
In  various  parts  of  the  church  were  tombs  of  knights, 
and  high-bom  dames,  of  gorgeous  workmanship,  with 
their  effigies  in  colored  marble.  On  every  side  the 
eye  was  struck  with  some  instance  of  aspiring  mor- 
tality; some  haughty  memorial  which  human  pride 
had  erected  over  its  kindred  dust,  in  this  temple  of 
the  most  htunble  of  all  religions. 

153 

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154  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

The  congregation  was  composed  of  the  neighboring 
people  of  rank,  who  sat  in  pews,  sumptuously  lined  and 
cushioned,  furnished  with  richly-gilded  prayer-books, 
and  decorated  with  their  arms  upon  the  pew  doors;  of 
the  villagers  and  peasantry,  who  filled  the  back  seats, 
and  a  small  gallery  beside  the  organ;  and  of  the  poor 
of  the  parish,  who  were  ranged  on  benches  in  the  aisles. 

The  service  was  performed  by  a  snuffling  well-fed 
vicar,  who  had  a  snug  dwelling  near  the  church.  He 
was  a  privileged  guest  at  all  the  tables  of  the  neigh- 
borhood, and  had  been  the  keenest  fox-hunter  in  the 
country,  until  age  and  good  living  had  disabled  him 
from  doing  anything  more  than  ride  to  see  the  hounds 
throw  ofl,^  and  make  one  at  the  hunting  dinner. 

Under  the  ministry  of  such  a  pastor,  I  found  it  im- 
possible to  get  into  the  train  of  thought  suitable  to 
the  time  and  place:  so,  having,  like  many  other  feeble 
Christians,  compromised  with  my  conscience,  by  lay- 
ing the  sin  of  my  own  delinquency  at  another  person's 
threshold,  I  occupied  myself  by  making  observations 
on  my  neighbors. 

I  was  as  yet  a  stranger  in  England,  and  curious  to 
notice  the  manners  of  its  fashionable  classes.  I  found, 
as  usual,  that  there  was  the  least  pretension  where 
there  was  the  most  acknowledged  title  to  respect.  I 
was  partictdarly  struck,  for  instance,  with  the  family 
of  a  nobleman  of  high  rank,  consisting  of  several  sons 
and  daughters.  Nothing  could  be  more  simple  and 
unassuming  than  their  appearance.  They  generally 
came  to  church  in  the  plainest  equipage,  and  often  on 

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THE  COUNTRY  CHURCH  155 

foot.  The  young  ladies  would  stop  and  converse  in 
the  kindest  manner  with  the  peasantry,  caress  the 
children,  and  listen  to  the  stories  of  the  humble  cot- 
tagers. Their  countenances  were  open  and  beauti- 
fully fair,  with  an  expression  of  high  refinement,  but, 
at  tJie  same  time,  a  frank  cheerfulness,  and  an  engaging 
affability.  Their  brothers  were  tall,  and  elegantly 
formed.  They  were  dressed  fashionably,  but  simply; 
with  strict  neatness  and  propriety,  but  without  any 
mannerism  or  foppishness.  Their  whole  demeanor 
was  easy  and  natural,  with  that  lofty  grace,  and 
noble  frankness,  which  bespeak  freebom  souls  that 
have  never  been  checked  in  their  growth  by  feelings 
of  inferiority.  There  is  a  healthful  hardiness  about 
real  dignity,  that  never  dreads  contact  and  commu- 
nion with  others,  however  htunble.  It  is  only  spuri- 
ous pride  that  is  morbid  and  sensitive,  and  shrinks 
from  every  touch.  I  was  pleased  to  see  the  manner 
in  which  they  would  converse  with  the  peasantry 
about  those  rural  concerns  and  field-sports  in  which 
the  gentlemen  of  this  country  so  much  delight.  In 
these  conversations  there  was  neither  haughtiness  on 
the  one  part,  nor  servility  on  the  other;  and  you 
were  only  reminded  of  the  difference  of  rank  by  the 
habitual  respect  of  the  peasant. 

In  contrast  to  these  was  the  family  of  a  wealthy 
citizen,  who  had  amassed  a  vast  forttme;  and  having 
purchased  the  estate  and  mansion  of  a  ruined  noble- 
man in  the  neighborhood,  was  endeavoring  to  assume 
all  the  style  and  dignity  of  an  hereditary  lord  of  the 

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156  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

soil.  The  family  always  came  to  church  en  prince. 
They  were  rolled  majestically  along  in  a  carriage  em- 
blazoned with  arms.  The  crest  glittered  in  silver 
radiance  from  every  part  of  the  harness  where  a  crest 
could  possibly  be  placed.  A  fat  coachman,  in  a  three- 
cornered  hat,  richly  laced,  and  a  flaxen  wig,  curling 
close  round  his  rosy  face,  was  seated  on  the  box,  with 
a  sleek  Danish  dog  beside  him.  Two  footmen,  in 
gorgeous  liveries,  with  huge  bouquets,  and  gold-headed 
Canes,  lolled  behind.  The  carriage  rose  and  sunk  on 
its  long  springs  with  peculiar  stateliness  of  motion. 
The  very  horses  champed  their  bits,  arched  their 
necks,  and  glanced  their  eyes  more  proudly  than  com- 
mon horses;  either  because  they  had  caught  a  little 
of  the  family  feeling,  or  were  reined  up  more  tightly 
than  ordinary. 

I  could  not  but  admire  the  style  with  which  this 
splendid  pageant  was  brought  up  to  the  gate  of  the 
churchyard.  There  was  a  vast  effect  produced  at  the 
turning  of  an  angle  of  the  wall; — a  great  smacking  of 
the  whip,  straining  and  scrambling  of  horses,  glisten- 
ing of  harness,  and  flashing  of  wheels  through  gravel. 
This  was  the  moment  of  tritmiph  and  vainglory  to  the 
coachman.  The  horses  were  urged  and  checked  tmtil 
they  were  fretted  into  a  foam.  They  threw  out  their 
feet  in  a  prancing  trot,  dashing  about  pebbles  at  every 
step.  The  crowd  of  villagers,  sauntering  quietly  to 
church,  opened  precipitately  to  the  right  and  left, 
gaping  in  vacant  admiration.  On  reaching  the  gate, 
the  horses  were  pulled  up  with  a  suddenness  that  pro- 


yGoogk 


THE  COUNTRY  CHURCH  15) 

duced  an  Immediate  stop,  and  almost  threw  them  on 
their  haunches. 

There  was  an  extraordinary  hurry  of  the  footman  to 
aKght,  pull  down  the  steps,  and  prepare  everything 
for  the  descent  on  earth  of  this  august  family.  The 
old  citizen  first  emerged  his  round  red  face  from  out 
the  door,  looking  about  him  with  the  pompous  air  of 
a  man  accustomed  to  rule  on  'Change,  and  shake  the 
Stock  Market  with  a  nod.  His  consort,  a  fine,  fleshy, 
comfortable  dame,  followed  him.  There  seemed,  I 
must  confess,  but  little  pride  in  her  composition.  She 
was  the  picture  of  broad,  honest,  vtdgar  enjoyment. 
The  world  went  well  with  her;  and  she  liked  the  world. 
She  had  fine  clothes,  a  fine  house,  a  fine  carriage,  fine 
children,  everything  was  fine  about  her:  it  was  noth- 
ing but  driving  about,  and  visiting  and  feasting.  Life 
was  to  her  a  perpetual  revel;  it  was  one  long  Lord 
Mayor's  day.^ 

Two  daughters  succeeded  to  this  goodly  couple. 
They  certainly  were  handsome;  but  had  a  supercilious 
air,  that  chilled  admiration,  and  disposed  the  spectator 
to  be  critical.  They  were  ultra-fashionable  in  dress; 
and,  though  no  one  cotdd  deny  the  richness  of  their 
decorations,  yet  their  appropriateness  might  be  ques- 
tioned amidst  the  simplicity  of  a  coimtry  church. 
They  descended  loftily  from  the  carriage,  and  moved 
up  the  line  of  peasantry  with  a  step  that  seemed  dainty 
of  the  soil  it  trod  on.  They  cast  an  excursive  glance 
around,  that  passed  coldly  over  the  burly  faces  of  the 
peasantry,  imtil  they  met  the  eyes  of  the  nobleman's 

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158  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

family,  when  their  countenances  immediately  bright- 
ened into  smiles,  and  they  made  the  most  profound 
and  elegant  courtesies,  which  were  returned  in  a  man- 
ner that  showed  they  were  but  slight  acquaintances. 

I  must  not  forget  the  two  sons  of  this  aspiring  citi- 
zen, who  came  to  church  in  a  dashing  curricle,  with 
outriders.  They  were  arrayed  in  the  extremity  of  the 
mode,  with  all  that  pedantry  of  dress  which  marks 
the  man  of  questionable  pretensions  to  style.  They 
kept  entirely  by  themselves,  eyeing  every  one  askance 
that  came  near  them,  as  if  measuring  his  claims  to  re- 
spectability; yet  they  were  without  conversation,  ex- 
cept the  exchange  of  an  occasional  cant  phrase.  They 
even  moved  artificially;  for  their  bodies,  in  compliance 
with  the  caprice  of  the  day,  had  been  disciplined  into 
the  absence  of  all  ease  and  freedom.  Art  had  done 
everything  to  accomplish  them  as  men  of  fashion, 
but  nature  had  denied  them  the  nameless  grace. 
They  were  vulgarly  shaped,  like  men  formed  for  the 
common  purposes  of  life,  and  had  that  air  of  super- 
cilious assumption  which  is  never  seen  in  the  true 
gentleman. 

I  have  been  rather  minute  in  drawing  the  pictures 
of  these  two  families,  because  I  considered  them  speci- 
mens of  what  is  often  to  be  met  with  in  this  country — 
the  unpretending  great,  and  the  arrogant  little.  I 
have  no  respect  for  titled  rank,  unless  it  be  accom- 
panied with  true  nobility  of  soul;  but  I  have  remarked 
.  in  all  countries  where  artificial  distinctions  exist  that 
the  very  highest  classes  are  always  the  most  cour- 

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THE  COUNTRY  CHURCH  159 

teous  and  unassuming.  Those  who  are  well  assured 
of  their  own  standing  are  least  apt  to  trespass  on  that 
of  others:  whereas  nothing  is  so  offensive  as  the  aspir- 
ings of  vulgarity,  which  thinks  to  elevate  itself  by 
humiliating  its  neighbor.  , 

As  I  have  brought  these  familes  into  contrast,  I 
must  notice  their  behavior,  in  church.  That  of  the 
nobleman's  family  was  quiet,  serious,  and  attentive. 
Not  that  they  appeared  to  have  any  fervor  of  devotion, 
but  rather  a  respect  for  sacred  things  and  sacred  places 
inseparable  from  good  breeding.  The  others,  on  the 
contrary,  were  in  a  perpetual  flutter  and  whisper; 
they  betrayed  a  continual  consciousness  of  finery, 
and  a  sorry  ambition  of  being  the  wonders  of  a  rural 
congregation. 

The  old  gentleman  was  the  only  one  really  attentive 
to  the  service.  He  took  the  whole  biurden  of  family 
devotion  upon  himself,  standing  bolt  upright,  and  ut- 
tering the  responses  with  a  loud  voice  that  might  be 
heard  all  over  the  church.  It  was  evident  that  he  was 
one  of  those  thorough  church  and  king  men,  who  con- 
nect the  idea  of  devotion  and  loyalty;  who  consider  the 
Deity,  somehow  or  other,  of  the  government  party, 
and  religion  ''  a  very  excellent  sort  of  thing,  that  ought 
to  be  countenanced  and  kept  up." 

When  he  joined  so  loudly  in  the  service,  it  seemed 
more  by  way  of  example  to  the  lower  orders,  to  shovi' 
them  that,  though  so  great  and  wealthy,  he  was  not 
above  being  religious;  as  I  have  seen  a  turtle-fed  al- 
derman swallow  publicly  a  basin  of  charity  soup« 

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i6o  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

smacking  his  lips  at  every  mouthful  and  pronouncing 
it  "excellent  food  for  the  poor."^ 

When  the  service  was  at  an  end,  I  was  curious  to 
witness  the  several  exits  of  my  groups.  The  young 
noblemen  and  their  sisters,  as  the  day  was  fine,  pre- 
ferred strolling  home  across  the  fields,  chatting  with 
the  country  people  as  they  went.  The  others  departed 
as  they  came,  in  grand  parade.  Again  were  the  equi- 
pages wheeled  up  to  the  gate.  There  was  again  the 
smacking  of  whips,  the  clattering  of  hoofs,  and  the 
glittering  of  harness.  The  horses  started  off  almost  at 
a  bound;  the  villagers  again  hurried  to  right  and  left; 
the  wheels  threw  up  a  cloud  of  dust;  and  the  aspiring 
family  was  rapt  out  of  sight  in  a  whirlwind.* 


yGoogk 


THE  WIDOW  AND  HER  SON 

Pittie  olde  age,  within  whose  silver  haires 
Honour  and  reverence  evermore  have  rain*d. 

Marlowe's  Tamburlaine. 

Those  who  are  in  the  habit  of  remarking  such  mat- 
ters, must  have  noticed  the  passive  quiet  of  an  English 
landscape  on  Sunday.  The  clacking  of  the  mill,  the 
regularly  recurring  stroke  of  the  flail,  the  din  of  the 
blacksmith's  hammer,  the  whistling  of  the  ploughman, 
the  rattling  of  the  cart,  and  all  other  sounds  of  rural 
labor  are  suspended.  The  very  farm  dogs  bark  less 
frequently*,  being  less  disturbed  by  passing  travellers. 
At  such  times  I  have  almost  fancied  the  winds  stmk 
into  quiet,  and  that  the  sunny  landscape,  with  its 
fresh  green  tints  melting  into  blue  haze,  enjoyed  the 
hallowed  calm. 

Sweet  day,  so  pure,  so  calm,  so  bright. 
The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky.» 

Well  was  it  ordained  that  the  day  of  devotion  should 
be  a  day  of  rest.  The  holy  repose  which  reigns  over 
the  face  of  nature  has  its  moral  influence;  every  rest- 
less passion  is  charmed  down,  and  we  feel  the  natural 
religion  of  the  soul  gently  springing  up  within  us. 
For  my  part,  there  are  feelings  that  visit  me,  in  a 
»i  I6l 

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i62  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

country  church,  amid  the  beautiful  serenity  of  nature, 
which  I  experience  nowhere  else;  and  if  not  a  more  re- 
ligious, I  think  I  am  a  better  man  on  Sunday  than  on 
any  other  day  of  the  seven. 

During  my  recent  residence  in  the  country,  I  used 
frequently  to  attend  at  the  old  village  church.  Its  shad- 
owy aisles;  its  mouldering  monuments;  its  dark  oaken 
panelling,  all  reverend  with  the  jerloom  of  departed 
years,  seemed  to  fit  it  for  the  haunt  ot  solemn  medixa- 
tion;  but  being  in  a  wealthy  aristocratic  neighborhood, 
the  glitter  of  fashion  penetrated  even  into  the  sanctu- 
ary; and  I  felt  myself  continually  thrown  back  upon 
the  world  by  the  frigidity  and  pomp  of  the  poor  worms 
around  me.  The  only  being  in  the  whole  congregation 
who  appeared  thoroughly  to  feel  the  humble  and  pros- 
trate piety  of  a  time  Christian  was  a  poor  decrepit  old 
woman,  bending  under  the  weight  of  years  and  infirmi- 
ties. She  bore  the  traces  of  something  better  than 
abject  poverty.  The  lingerings  of  decent  pride  were 
visible  in  her  appearance.  Her  dress,  though  humble 
in  the  extreme,  was  scrupulously  clean.  Some  trivial 
respect,  too,  had  been  awarded  her,  for  she  did  not 
take  her  seat  among  the  village  poor,  but  sat  alone  on 
the  steps  of  the  altar.  She  seemed  to  have  survived 
all  love,  all  friendship,  all  society;  and  to  have  nothing 
Aeft  her  but  the  hopes  of  heaven.  When  I  saw  her 
feebly  rising  and  bending  her  aged  form  in  prayer; 
habitually  conring  her  prayer-book,  which  her  palsied 
hand  and  failing  eyes  would  not  permit  her  to  read,  but 
which  she  evidently  knew  by  heart;  I  felt  persuaded 

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THE  WIDOW  AND  HER  SON  163 

that  the  faltering  voice  of  that  poor  woman  arose  to 
heaven  far  before  the  responses  of  the  clerk,  the  swell 
of  the  organ,  or  the  chanting  of  the  choir. 

I  am  fond  of  loitering  about  country  churches,  and 
this  was  so  delightfully  situated,  that  it  frequently  at- 
tracted me.  It  stood  on  a  knoll,  round  which  a  small 
stream  made  a  beautiful  bend  and  then  wound  its 
way  through  a  long  reach  of  soft  meadow  scenery.  The 
church  was  surrounded  by  yew-trees  which  seemed 
almost  coeval  with  itself.  Its  tall  Gothic  spire  shot 
up  lightly  from  among  them,  with  rooks  and  crows 
generally  wheeling  about  it.  I  was  seated  there  one 
still  sunny  morning,  watching  two  laborers  who  were 
digging  a  grave.  They  had  chosen  one  of  the  most  re- 
mote and  neglected  comers  of  the  churchyard;  where, 
from  the  number  of  nameless  graves  around,  it  would 
appear  that  the  indigent  and  friendless  were  huddled 
into  the  earth.  I  was  told  that  the  new-made  grave 
was  for  the  only  son  of  a  poor  widow.  While  I  was 
meditating  on  the  distinctions  of  worldly  rank,  which 
extend  thus  down  into  the  very  dust,  the  toll  of  the  bell 
announced  the  approach  of  the  funeral.  They  were 
the  obsequies  of  poverty,  with  which  pride  had  nothing 
to  do.  A  coffin  of  the  plainest  materials,  without  pall 
or  other  covering,  was  borne  by  some  of  the  villagers. 
The  sexton  walked  bef6re  with  an  air  of  cold  indiffer- 
ence. There  were  no  mock  mourners  in  the  trappings 
of  affected  woe;  but  there  was  one  real  mourner  who 
feebly  tottered  after  the  corpse.  It  was  the  aged 
mother  of  the  deceased — the  poor  old  woman  whom  I 

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i64  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

had  seen  seated  on  the  steps  of  the  altar.  She  was 
supported  by  a  htimble  friend,  who  was  endeavoring 
to  comfort  her.  A  few  of  the  neighboring  poor  had 
joined  the  train,  and  some  children  of  the  village  were 
running  hand  in  hand,  now  shouting  with  unthinking 
mirth,  and  now  pausing  to  gaze,  with  childish  curiosity, 
on  the  grief  of  the  mourner. 

As  the  funeral  train  approached  the  grave,  the  par- 
son issued  from  the  church  porch,  arrayed  in  the  sur- 
plice, with  prayer-book  in  hand,  and  attended  by  the 
clerk.  The  service,  however,  was  a  mere  act  of  charity. 
The  deceased  had  been  destitute,  and  the  survivor 
was  penniless.  It  was  shuffled  through,  therefore,  in 
form,  but  coldly  and  unfeelingly.  The  well-fed  priest ' 
moved  but  a  few  steps  from  the  church  door;  his  voice 
could  scarcely  be  heard  at  the  grave;  and  never  did  I 
hear  the  funeral  service,  that  sublime  and  touching 
ceremony,  turned  into  such  a  frigid  mummery  of 
words. 

I  approached  the  grave.  The  coffin  was  placed  on 
the  ground.  On  it  were  inscribed  the  name  and  age 
of  the  deceased — ''George  Somers,  aged  26  years." 
The  poor  mother  had  been  assisted  to  kneel  down  at 
the  head  of  it.  Her  withered  hands  were  clasped,  as 
if  in  prayer,  but  I  could  perceive  by  a  feeble  rocking  of 
the  body,  and  a  convulsive  motion  of  her  lips,  that  she 
was  gazing  on  the  last  relics  of  her  son,  with  the  yearn- 
ings of  a  mother's  heart. 

Preparations  were  made  to  deposit  the  coffin  in  the 
earth.     There  was  that  bustling  stir  which  breaks 

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THE  WIDOW  AND  HER  SON  165 

so  harshly  on  the  feelings  of  grief  and  affection;  direc- 
tions given  in  the  cold  tones  of  business;  the  striking 
of  spades  into  sand  and  gravel;  which,  at  the  grave  of 
those  we  love,  is,  of  all  sounds,  the  most  withering. 
The  bustle  around  seemed  to  waken  the  mother  from  a 
wretched  reverie.  She  raised  her  glazed  eyes,  and 
looked  about  with  a  faint  wildness.  As  the  men  ap- 
proached with  cords  to  lower  the  coffin  into  the  grave, 
she  wnmg  her  hands,  and  broke  into  an  agony  of  grief. 
The  poor  woman  who  attended  her  took  her  by  the 
arm,  endeavoring  to  raise  her  from  the  earth,  and  to 
whisper  something  like  consolation — "  Nay,  now — ^nay 
now, — don't  take  it  so  sorely  to  heart.  "^  She  could 
only  shake  her  head  and  wring  her  hands,  as  one  not 
to  be  comforted. 

As  they  lowered  the  body  into  the  earth,  the  creak- 
ing of  the  cords  seemed  to  agonize  her;  but  when,  on 
some  accidental  obstruction,  there  was  a  justling  of 
the  coffin,  all  the  tenderness  of  the  mother  burst  forth; 
as  if  any  harm  could  come  to  him  who  was  far  beyond 
the  reach  of  worldly  suffering. 

I  could  see  no  more — ^my  heart  swelled  into  my 
throat — ^my  eyes  filled  with  tears — I  felt  as  if  I  were 
acting  a  barbarous  part  in  standing  by,  and  gazing 
idly  on  this  scene  of  maternal  anguish.  I  wandered  to 
another  part  of  the  churchyard,  where  I  remained  until 
the  funeral  train  had  dispersed. 

When  I  saw  the  mother  slowly  and  painfully  qtiit- 
ting  the  grave,  leaving  behind  her  the  remains  of  all 
that  was  dear  to  her  on  earth,  and  retiuning  to  silence 

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i66  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

and  destitution,  my  heart  ached  for  her.  What, 
thought  I,  are  the  distresses  of  the  rich!  they  have 
friends  to  soothe — ^pleasures  to  beguile — b.  world  to 
divert  and  dissipate  their  griefs.  What  are  the  sor- 
rows of  the  young!  Their  growing  minds  soon  close 
above  the  wound — ^their  elastic  spirits  soon  rise  be- 
neath the  pressure — their  green  and  ductile  affections 
soon  twine  round  new  objects.  But  the  sorrows  of 
the  poor,  who  have  no  outward  appliances  to  soothe — 
the  sorrows  of  the  aged,  with  whom  life  at  best  is  but 
a  wintry  day,  and  who  can  look  for  no  after-growth 
of  joy — ^the  sorrows  of  a  widow,  aged,  solitary,  des- 
titute, moiuTiing  over  an  only  son,  the  last  solace  of  her 
years ;  these  are  indeed  sorrows  which  make  us  feel  the 
impotency  of  consolation. 

It  was  some  time  before  I  left  the  churchyard.  On 
my  way  homeward  I  met  with  the  woman  who  had 
acted  as  comforter :  she  was  just  returning  from  accom- 
panying the  mother  to  her  lonely  habitation,  and  I 
drew  from  her  some  particulars  connected  with  the 
affecting  scene  I  had  witnessed. 

The  parents  of  the  deceased  had  resided  in  the  vil- 
lage from  childhood.  They  had  inhabited  one  of  the 
neatest  cottages,  and  by  various  rural  occupations, 
and  the  assistance  of  a  small  garden,  had  supported 
themselves  creditably  and  -comfortably,  and  led  a 
happy  and  a  blameless  life.  They  had  one  son,  who 
had  grown  up  to  be  the  staff  and  pride  of  their  age. — 
'*0h,  sir!"  said  the  good  woman,  "he  was  such  a 
comely  lad,  so  sweet-tempered,  so  kind  to  every  one 

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THE  WIDOW  AND  HER  SON  167 

around  him,  so  dutiful  to  his  parents!  It  did  one's 
heart  good  to  see  him  of  a  Sunday  dressed  out  in  his 
best,  so  tall,  so  straight,  so  cheery,  supporting  his 
old  mother  to  church — ^f or  she  was  always  fonder  of 
leaning  on  George's  arm,  than  on  her  good  man's ;  and, 
I)oor  soul,  she  might  well  be  proud  of  him,  for  a  finer 
lad  there  was  not  in  the  country  round. " 

Unfortunately,  the  son  was  tempted,  during  a  year 
of  scarcity  and  agricultural  hardship,  to  enter  into 
the  service  of  one  of  the  small  craft  that  plied  on  a 
neighboring  river.  He  had  not  been  long  in  this  em- 
ploy when  he  was  entrapped  by  a  press-gang,  ^  and  car- 
ried ofiE  to  sea.  His  parents  received  tidings  of  his 
seizure,  but  beyond  that  they  could  learn  nothing.  It 
was  the  loss  of  their  main  prop.  The  father,  who  was 
already  infirm,  grew  heartless  and  melancholy,  and 
sunk  into  his  grave.  The  widow,  left  lonely  in  her 
age  and  feebleness,  could  no  longer  support  herself, 
and  came  upon  the  parish.  Still  there  was  a  kind  feel- 
ing toward  her  throughout  the  village,  and  a  certain 
respect  as  being  one  of  the  oldest  inhabitants.  As  no 
one  applied  for  the  cottage,  in  which  she  had  passed 
so  many  happy  days,  she  was  permitted  to  remain  in  it, 
where  she  lived  solitary  and  almost  helpless.  The  few 
wants  of  nature  were  chiefly  supplied  from  the  scanty 
productions  of  her  little  garden,  which  the  neighbors 
would  now  and  then  cultivate  for  her.  It  was  but  a 
few  days  before  the  time  at  which  these  circumstances 
were  told  me,  that  she  was  gathering  some  vegetables 
for   her  repast,   when  she  heard  the  cottage  door 

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168  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

which  faced  the  garden  suddenly  opened.  A  stranger 
came  out,  and  seemed  to  be  looking  eagerly  and 
wildly  around.  He  was  dressed  in  seaman's  clothes, 
was  emaciated  and  ghastly  pale,  and  bore  the  air  of 
one  broken  by  sickness  and  hardships.  He  saw  her, 
and  hastened  towards  her,  but  his  steps  were  faint  and 
faltering;  he  sank  on  his  knees  before  her,  and  sobbed 
like  a  child.  The  poor  woman  gazed  upon  him  with 
a  vacant  and  wandering  eye — "Oh,  my  dear,  dear 
mother!  don't  you  know  your  son?  your  poor  boy, 
George?  "  It  was  indeed  the  wreck  of  her  once  noble 
lad,  who,  shattered  by  wounds,  by  sickness  and  foreign 
imprisonment,  had,  at  length,  dragged  his  wasted 
limbs  homeward,  to  repose  among  the  scenes  of  his 
childhood. 

I  will  not  attempt  to  detail  the  particulars  of  such 
a  meeting,  where  joy  and  sorrow  were  so  completely 
blended:  still  he  was  alive!  he  was  come  home!  he 
might  yet  live  to  comfort  and  cherish  her  old  age! 
Nature,  however,  was  exhausted  in  him;  and  if  any 
thing  had  been  wanting  to  finish  the  work  of  fate,  the 
desolation  of  his  native  cottage  would  have  been  suf- 
ficient. He  stretched  himself  on  the  pallet  on  which 
his  widowed  mother  had  passed  many  a  sleepless  night, 
and  he  never  rose  from  it  again. 

The  villagers  when  they  heard  that  George  Somers 
had  returned,  crowded  to  see  him,  offering  every  com- 
fort and  assistance  that  their  humble  means  afforded. 
He  was  too  weak,  however,  to  talk — ^he  could  only 
look  his  thanks.     His  mother  was  his  constant  atten- 

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THE  WIDOW  AND  HER  SON  169 

dant;  and  he  seemed  unwilling  to  be  helped  by  any 
other  hand. 

There  is  something  in  sickness  that  breaks  down  the 
pride  of  manhood;  that  softens  the  heart,  and  brings 
it  back  to  the  feelings  of  infancy.  Who  that  has 
languished,  even  in  advanced  life,  in  sickness  and  des- 
pondency; who  that  has  pined  on  a  weary  bed  in  the 
neglect  and  loneliness  of  a  foreign  land;  but  has  thought 
on  the  mother  '*that  looked  on  his  childhood,"  that 
smoothed  his  pillow,  and  administered  to  his  help- 
lessness? Oh!  there  is  an  enduring  tenderness  in  the 
love  of  a  mother  to  her  son  that  transcends  all  other 
affections  of  the  heart.  It  is  neither  to  be  chilled  by 
selfishness,  nor  daunted  by  danger,  nor  weakened  by 
worthlessness,  nor  stifled  by  ingratitude.  She  will 
sacrifice  every  comfort  to  his  convenience;  she  will  sur- 
render every  pleasure  to  his  enjoyment;  she  will  glory 
in  his  fame,  and  exult  in  his  prosperity: — and,  if  mis- 
fortune overtake  him,  he  will  be  the  dearer  to  her  from 
misfortune;  and  if  disgrace  settle  upon  his  name,  she 
will  still  love  and  cherish  him  in  spite  of  his  disgrace; 
and  if  all  the  world  beside  cast  him  off,  she  will  be  all 
the  world  to  him. 

Poor  George  Somers  had  known  what  it  was  to  be 
in  sickness,  and  none  to  soothe — ^lonely  and  in  prison,^ 
and  none  to  visit  him.  He  could  not  endure  his 
mother  from  his  sight;  if  she  moved  away,  his  eye 
would  follow  her.  She  would  sit  for  hours  by  his  bed. 
watching  him  as  he  slept.  Sometimes  he  would  start 
from  a  feverish  dream,  and  look  anxiously  up  until  he 

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I70  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

saw  her  bending  over  him;  when  he  would  take  her 
hand,  lay  it  on  his  bosom,  and  fall  asleep  with  the 
tranquillity  of  a  child.     In  this  way  he  died. 

My  first  impulse  on  hearing  this  humble  tale  of 
affliction  was  to  visit  the  cottage  of  the  mourner,  and 
administer  pecuniary  assistance,  and,  if  possible, 
comfort.  I  found,  however,  on  inquiry,  that  the  good 
feelings  of  the  villagers  had  prompted  them  to  do 
everything  that  the  case  admitted:  and  as  the  poor 
know  best  how  to  console  each  other's  sorrows,  I 
did  not  venture  to  intrude. 

The  next  Sunday  I  was  at  the  village  church;  when, 
to  my  surprise,  I  saw  the  poor  old  woman  tottering 
down  the  aisle  to  her  accustomed  seat  on  the  steps  of 
the  altar. 

She  had  made  an  effort  to  put  on  something  like 
mourning  for  her  son;  and  nothing  could  be  more 
touching  than  this  struggle  between  pious  affection  and 
utter  poverty:  a  black  ribbon  or  so — a  faded  black 
handkerchief,  and  one  or  two  more  such  humble  at- 
tempts to  express  by  outward  signs  that  grief  which 
passes  show.  When  I  looked  round  upon  the  storied 
monuments,  the  stately  hatchments,  the  cold  marble 
pomp,  with  which  grandeur  mourned  magnificently 
over  departed  pride,  and  turned  to  this  poor  widow, 
bowed  down  by  age  and  sorrow,  at  the  altar  of  her  God, 
and  offering  up  the  prayers  and  praises  of  a  pious, 
though  a  broken  heart,  I  felt  that  this  living  monu- 
ment of  real  grief  was  worth  them  all. 

I  related  her  story  to  some  of  the  wealthy  members 

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THE  WIDOW  AND  HER  SON  171 

of  the  congregation,  and  they  were  moved  by  it. 
They  exerted  themselves  to  render  her  situation  more 
comfortable,  and  to  lighten  her  afflictions.  It  was, 
however,  but  smoothing  a  few  steps  to  the  grave.  In 
the  course  of  a  Sunday  or  two  after,  she  was  missed 
from  her  usual  seat  at  church,  and  before  I  left  the 
neighborhood,  I  heard,  with  a  feeling  of  satisfaction, 
that  she  had  quietly  breathed  her  last,  and  had  gone 
to  rejoin  those  she  loved,  in  that  world  where  sorrc"tr 
is  never  known,  and  friends  are  never  parted. 


yGoogk 


A  SUNDAY  IN  LONDON* 

In  a  preceding  paper  I  have  spoken  of  an  English 
Sunday  in  the  cotintry,  and  its  tranquillizing  effect 
upon  the  landscape;  but  where  is  its  sacred  influence 
more  strikingly  apparent  than  in  the  very  heart  of 
that  great  Babel,  London?  On  this  sacred  day,  the 
gigantic  monster  is  charmed  into  repose.  The  intoler- 
able din  and  struggle  of  the  week  are  at  an  end.  The 
shops  are  shut.  The  fires  of  forges  and  manufactories 
are  extinguished;  and  the  sun,  no  longer  obsctired  by 
murky  clouds  of  smoke,  pours  down  a  sober,  yellow 
radiance  into  the  quiet  streets.  The  few  pedestrians 
we  meet,  instead  of  hunying  forward  with  anxious 
countenances,  move  leisurely  along;  their  brows  are 
smoothed  from  the  wrinkles  of  business  and  care;  they 
•  have  put  on  their  Sunday  looks,  and  Sunday  manners, 
with  their  Sunday  clothes,  and  are  cleansed  in  mind  as 
well  as  in  person. 

And  now  the  melodious  clangor  of  bells  from 
church  towers  summons  their  several  flocks  to  the 
fold.  Forth  issues  from  his  mansion  the  family  of  the 
decent  tradesman,  the  small  children  in  the  advance; 
then  the  citizen  and  his  comely  spouse,  followed  by  the 
grown-up  daughters,with  small  morocco-bound  prayer- 

*  Part  of  a  sketch  omitted  in  the  preceding  editions. 
172 

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A  SUNDA  Y  IN  LONDON  173 

books  laid  in  the  folds  of  their  pocket-handkerchiefs. 
The  housemaid  looks  after  them  from  the  window,  ad-  t 
miring  the  finery  of  the  family,  and  receiving,  perhaps, 
a  nod  and  smile  from  her  young  mistresses,  at  whose 
toilet  she  has  assisted. 

Now  rumbles  along  the  carriage  of  some  magnate 
of  the  city,  perad  venture  an  alderman  or  a  sheriff;  and 
now  the  patter  of  many  feet  announces  a  procession  of 
charity  scholars,  in  imiforms  of  antique  cut,  and  each 
with  a  prayer-book  under  his  arm. 

The  ringing  of  bells  is  at  an  end;  the  rumbling  of 
the  carriage  has  ceased;  the  pattering  of  feet  is  heard 
no  more;  the  flocks  are  folded  in  ancient  churches, 
cramped  up  in  by-lanes  and  comers  of  the  crowded 
city,  where  the  vigilant  beadle  keeps  watch,  like  the 
shepherd's  dog,  roimd  the  threshold  of  the  sanctuary. 
For  a  time  everything  is  hushed ;  but  soon  is  heard  the 
deep,  pervading  sound  of  the  organ,  rolling  and  vi- 
brating through  the  empty  lanes  and  courts;  and 
the  sweet  chanting  of  the  choir  making  them  resound 
with  melody  and  praise.  Never  have  I  been  more 
sensible  of  the  sanctifying  effect  of  church  music,  than 
when  I  have  heard  it  thus  poured  forth,  like  a  river  of 
joy,  through  the  iimiost  recesses  of  this  great  metropo- 
lis, elevating  it,  as  it  were,  from  all  the  sordid  pollu- 
tions of  the  week;  and  bearing  the  poor  world- worn 
soul  on  a  tide  of  triumphant  harmony  to  heaven. 

The  morning  service  is  at  an  end.  The  streets  are 
again  alive  with  the  congregations  retiuning  to  their 
homes,  but  soon  again  relapse  into  silence.     Now 

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174  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

comes  on  the  Sunday  dinner,  which,  to  the  city  trades- 
man, is  a  meal  of  some  importance.  There  is  more 
leisure  for  social  enjoyment  at  the  board.  Members 
of  the  family  can  now  gather  together,  who  are  sepa- 
rated by  the  laborious  occupations  of  the  week.  A 
schoolboy  may  be  permitted  on  that  day  to  come  to 
the  paternal  home;  an  old  friend  of  the  family  takes 
his  accustomed  Sunday  seat  at  the  board,  tells  over 
his  well-known  stories,  and  rejoices  j^'oung  and  old 
with  his  well-known  jokes. 

On  Sunday  afternoon  the  city  pours  forth  its  legions 
to  breathe  the  fresh  air  and  enjoy  the  sunshine  of  the 
parks  and  rural  environs.  Satirists  may  say  what 
they  please  about  the  rural  enjoyments  of  a  London 
citizen  on  Sunday,  but  to  me  there  is  something  de- 
lightful in  beholding  the  poor  prisoner  of  the  crowded 
and  dusty  city  enabled  thus  to  come  forth  once  a  week 
and  throw  himself  upon  the  green  bosom  of  nature. 
He  is  like  a  child  restored  to  the  mother's  breast;  and 
they,  who  first  spread  out  these  noble  parks  and  mag- 
nificent pleasure-groimds  which  surround  this  huge 
metropolis,  have  done  at  least  as  much  for  its  health 
and  morality  as  if  they  had  expended  the  amount  of 
cost  in  hospitals,  prisons,  and  penitentiaries. 


yGoogk 


THE  BOAR'S  HEAD  TAVERN,  EASTCHEAP 

A   SHAKESPEARIAN  RESEARCH 

A  tavern  is  the  rendezvotis,  the  exchange,  the  staple  of  good 
fellows.  I  have  heard  my  great-grandfather  tell,  how  his  great- 
great-grandfather  shotdd  say,  that  it  was  an  old  proverb  when  his 
great-grandfather  was  a  child,  that  "it  was  a  good  wind  that 
blew  a  man  to  the  wine." 

Mother  Bombib. 

It  is  a  pious  custom,  in  some  Catholic  countries,  to 
honor  the  memory  of  saints  by  votive  lights  burnt  be- 
fore their  pictures.  The  popularity  of  a  saint,  there- 
fore, may  be  known  by  the  number  of  these  pflEerings. 
One,  perhaps,  is  left  to  moulder  in  the  darkness  of 
his  little  chapel;  another  may  have  a  solitary  lamp  to 
throw  its  blinking  rays  athwart  his  efSgy;  while  the 
whole  blaze  of  adoration  is  lavished  at  the  shrine  of 
some  beatified  father  of  renown.  The  wealthy  dev- 
otee brings  his  huge  luminary  of  wax;  the  eager  zealot 
his  seven-branched  candlestick,  and  even  the  mendi- 
cant pilgrim  is  by  no  means  satisfied  that  sufficient 
light  is  thrown  upon  the  deceased,  unless  he  hangs  up 
his  little  lamp  of  smoking  oil.  The  consequence  is, 
that  in  the  eagerness  to  enlighten,  they  are  often  apt 
to  obscure;  and  I  have  occasionally  seen  an  unlucky 
saint  almost  smoked  out  of  countenance  by  the  offi- 
ciousness  of  his  followers. 

175 

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A76  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

In  like  manner  has  it  fared  with  the  immortal  Shake- 
speare. Every  writer  considers  it  his  bounden  duty  to 
light  up  some  portion  of  his  character  or  works,  and 
to  rescue  some  merit  from  obHvion.  The  commenta- 
tor, optdent  in  words,  produces  vast  tomes  of  disserta- 
tions; the  common  herd  of  editors  send  up  mists  of 
obscurity  from  their  notes  at  the  bottom  of  each  page ; 
and  every  casual  scribbler  brings  his  farthing  rushlight 
of  eulogy  or  research,  to  swell  the  cloud  of  incense  and 
of  smoke. 

As  I  honor  all  established  usages  of  my  brethren  of 
the  quill,  I  thought  it  but  proper  to  contribute  my  mite 
of  homage  to  the  memory  of  the  illustrious  bard.  I 
was  for  some  time,  however,  sorely  puzzled  in  what 
way  I  should  discharge  this  duty.  I  found  myself 
anticipated  in  every  attempt  at  a  new  reading;  every 
doubtful  line  had  been  explained  a  dozen  diflEerent 
ways,  and  perplexed  beyond  the  reach  of  elucidation ; 
and  as  to  fine  passages,  they  had  all  been  amply 
praised  by  previous  admirers;  nay,  so  completely  had 
the  bard,  of  late,  been  overlarded  with  panegyric  by  a 
great  German  critic,  that  it  was  difficult  now  to  find 
even  a  fault  that  had  not  been  argued  into  a  beauty. 

In  this  perplexity,  I  was  one  morning  turning  over 
his  pages,  when  I  casually  opened  upon  the  comic 
scenes  of  Henry  IV.,  and  was,  in  a  moment,  completely 
lost  in  the  madcap  revelry  of  the  Boar's  Head  Tavern. 
So  vividly  and  naturally  are  these  scenes  of  htunor  de- 
picted, and  with  such  force  and  consistency  are  the 
characters  sustained,  that  they  become  mingled  up  in 

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THE  BOARS  HEAD  TA  VERN,  EASTCHEAP  177 

the  mind  with  the  facts  and  personages  of  real  life. 
To  few  readers  does  it  occur  that  these  are  all  ideal 
creations  of  a  poet's  brain,  and  that,  in  sober  truth,  no 
such  knot  of  merry  roysters  ever  livened  the  dull 
neighborhood  of  Eastcheap. 

For  my  part  I  love  to  give  myself  up  to  the  illusions 
of  poetry.  A  hero  of  fiction  that  never  existed  is  just 
as  valuable  to  me  as  a  hero  of  history  that  existed  a 
thousand  years  since:  and,  if  I  may  be  excused  such  an 
insensibility  to  the  common  ties  of  human  nature,  I 
wotdd  not  give  up  fat  Jack  for  half  the  great  men  of 
ancient  chronicle.  What  have  the  heroes  pf  yore  done 
for  me,  or  men  like  me?  They  have  conquered  coun- 
tries of  which  I  do  not  enjoy  an  acre;  or  they  have 
gained  laurels  of  which  I  do  not  inherit  a  leaf;  or  they 
have  furnished  examples  of  hair-brained  prowess, 
which  I  have  neither  the  opportunity  nor  the  incli- 
nation to  follow.  But,  old  Jack  FalstaflE! — ^kind  Jack 
FalstaflE! — sweet  Jack  Falstaff! — ^has  enlarged  the 
boundaries  of  human  enjoyment:  he  has  added  vast 
regions  of  wit  and  good  htmior,  in  which  the  poorest 
man  may  revel;  and  has  bequeathed  a  never-failing 
inheritance  of  jolly  laughter,  to  make  mankind  merrier 
and  better  to  the  latest  posterity. 

A  thought  suddenly  struck  me:  "I  will  make  a  pil- 
grimage to  Eastcheap, "  said  I,  closing  the  book,  "  and 
see  if  the  old  Boar's  Head  Tavern'  still  exists.  Who 
knows  but  I  may  light  upon  some  legendary  traces 
of  Dame  Quickly  *  and  her  guests;  at  any  rate,  there  will 
be  a  kindred  pleasure,  in  treading  the  halls  once  vocal 

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178  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

with  their  mirth,  to  that  the  toper  enjoj^  in  smelling 
to  the  empty  cask  once  filled  with  generous  wine. " 

The  resolution  was  no  sooner  formed  than  put  in 
execution.  I  forbear  to  treat  of  the  variotis  adven- 
tures and  wonders  I  encountered  in  my  travels;  of  the 
haunted  regions  of  Cock  Lane';  of  the  faded  glories  of 
Little  Britain,*  and  the  parts  adjacent;  what  perils  I 
ran  in  Cateaton-street  and  old  Jewry  ^ ;  of  the  renowned 
■Guildhall  and  its  two  stunted  giants,^  the  pride  and 
wonder  of  the  city,  and  the  terror  of  all  unlucky  ur- 
chins; and  how  I  visited  London  Stone,  and  struck 
my  staflE  upon  it,  in  imitation  of  that  arch  rebel,  Jack 
Cade.s 

Let  it  suflSce  to  say,  that  I  at  length  arrived  in  merry 
Eastcheap,^  that  ancient  region  of  wit  and  wassail, 
where  the  very  names  of  the  streets  relished  of  good 
•cheer,  as  Pudding  Lane  bears  testimony  even  at  the 
present  day.  For  Eastcheap,  says  old  Stowe,  **was 
always  famous  for  its  convivial  doings.  The  cookes 
<Tied  hot  ribbes  of  beef  roasted,  pies  well  baked,  and 
other  victuals:  there  was  clattering  of  pewter  pots, 
harpe,  pipe,  and  sawtrie."  Alas!  how  sadly  is  the 
scene  changed  since  the  roaring  days  of  FalstaflE  and 
old  Stowe!  The  madcap  royster  has  given  place  to 
the  plodding  tradesman;  the  clattering  of  pots  and  the 
sound  of  '*  harpe  and  sawtrie, "  to  the  din  of  carts  and 
the  accursed  dinging  of  the  dustman's  bell;  and  no 
song  is  heard,  save,  haply,  the  strain  of  some  siren 
from  Billingsgate,  chanting  the  eulogy  of  deceased 
mackerel. 

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THE  BOARS  HEAD  TA  VERN,  EASTCHEAP  179 

I  sought,  in  vain,  for  the  ancient  abode  of  Dame 
Qtuckly.  The  only  relic  of  it  is  a  boar's  head,  carved 
in  relief  in  stone,  which  formerly  served  as  the  sign, 
but  at  present  is  built  into  the  parting  line  of  two 
houses,  which  stand  on  the  site  of  the  renowned  old 
tavern. 

For  the  history  of  this  little  abode  of  good  fellowship, 
I  was  referred  to  a  tallow-chandler's  widow,  opposite, 
who  had  been  bom  and  brought  up  on  the  spot,  and 
was  looked  up  to  as  the  indisputable  chronicler  of  the 
neighborhood.  I  found  her  seated  in  a  little  back  par- 
lor, the  window  of  which  looked  out  upon  a  yard  about 
eight  feet  square,  laid  out  as  a  flower  garden;  while  a 
glass  door  opposite  afforded  a  distant  peep  of  the  street, 
through  a  vista  of  soap  and  tallow  candles:  the  two 
views,  which  comprised,  in  all  probabiHty,  her  pros- 
pects in  life,  and  the  little  world  in  which  she  had  lived, 
and  moved,  and  had  her  being  for  the  better  part  of  a 
century. 

To  be  versed  in  the  history  of  Eastcheap,  great  and 
little,  from  London  Stone'  even  unto  the  Monument,* 
was  doubtless,  in  her  opinion,  to  be  acquainted  with 
the  history  of  the  universe.  Yet,  with  all  this,  she  pos- 
sessed the  simpHcity  of  true  wisdom,  and  that  liberal 
communicative  disposition,  which  I  have  generally 
remarked  in  intelligent  old  ladies,  knowing  in  the 
concerns  of  their  neighborhood. 

Her  information,  however,  did  not  extend  far  back 
into  antiquity.  She  could  throw  no  light  upon  the 
history  of  the  Boar's  Head,  from  the  time  that  Dame 

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i8o  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

Quickly  espoused  the  valiant  Pistol,'  until  the  great 
fire  of  London,  when  it  was  tmfortunately  burnt  down. 
It  was  soon  rebuilt,  and  continued  to  flourish  under  the 
old  name  and  sign,  until  a  dying  landlord,  struck  with 
remorse  for  double  scores,  bad  measures,  and  other 
iniquities,  which  are  incident  to  the  sinful  race  of  publi- 
cans, endeavored  to  make  his  peace  with  heaven,  by 
bequeathing  the  tavern  to  St.  Michael's  Church, 
Crooked  Lane,  towards  the  supporting  of  a  chaplain. 
For  some  time  the  vestry  meetings  were  regularly 
held  there;  but  it  was  observed  that  the  old  Boar  never 
held  up  his  head  imder  church  government.  He  grad- 
ually decHned,  and  finally  gave  his  last  gasp  about 
thirty  years  since.  The  tavern  was  then  turned  into 
shops ;  but  she  informed  me  that  a  picture  of  it  was  still 
preserved  in  St.  Michael's  Church,  which  stood  just 
in  the  rear.  To  get  a  sight  of  this  picture  was  now 
my  determination;  so,  having  informed  myself  of  the 
abode  of  the  sexton,  I  took  my  leave  of  the  venerable 
chronicler  of  Eastcheap,  my  visit  having  doubtless 
raised  greatly  her  opinion  of  her  legendary  lore,  and 
furnished  an  important  incident  in  the  history  of  her 
life. 

It  cost  me  some  difficulty,  and  much  curious  inquiry, 
to  ferret  out  the  humbler  hanger-on  to  the  church.  I 
had  to  explore  Crooked  Lane,  and  diverse  little  alleys, 
and  elbows,  and  dark  passages,  with  which  this  old 
city  is  perforated,  like  an  ancient  cheese,  or  a  worm- 
eaten  chest  of  drawers.  At  length  I  traced  him  to  a 
comer  of  a  small  court  surrounded  by  lofty  houses. 

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THE  BOARS  HEAD  TA  VERN,  EASTCHEAP  i8i 

where  the  inhabitants  enjoy  about  as  much  of  the  face 
of  heaven  as  a  community  of  frogs  at  the  bottom  of  a 
well. 

The  sexton  was  a  meek,  acquiescing  little  man,  of  a 
bowing,  lowly  habit;  yet  he  had  a  pleasant  twinkling 
in  his  eye,  and,  if  encouraged,  would  now  and  then  haz- 
ard a  small  pleasantry;  such  as  a  man  of  his  low  estate 
might  venture  to  make  in  the  company  of  high  church- 
wardens, and  other  mighty  men  of  the  earth.  I  fotmd 
him  in  company  with  the  deputy  organist,  seated  apart, 
like  Milton's  angels,  discoursing,  no  doubt,  on  high 
doctrinal  points,  and  settling  the  affairs  of  the  church 
over  a  friendly  pot  of  ale — ^for  the  lower  classes  of 
English  seldom  deliberate  on  any  weighty  matter 
without  the  assistance  of  a  cool  tankard  to  dear  their 
tmderstandings.  I  arrived  at  the  moment  when  they 
had  finished  their  ale  and  their  argimient,  and  were 
about  to  repair  to  the  church  to  put  it  in  order; 
so,  having  made  known  my  wishes,  I  received  their 
gracious  permission  to  accompany  them. 

The  church  of  St.  Michael's,  Crooked  Lane,  standing 
a  short  distance  from  Billingsgate, '  is  enriched  with  the 
tombs  of  many  fishmongers  of  renown;  and  as  every 
profession  has  its  galaxy  of  glory,  and  its  constellation 
of  great  men,  I  presume  the  monument  of  a  mighty 
fishmonger  of  the  olden  time  is  regarded  with  as  much 
reverence  by  succeeding  generations  of  the  craft,  as 
poets  feel  on  comtemplating  the  tomb  of  Virgil,  or 
soldiers  the  monument  of  a  Marlborough  or  Turenne. 

I  cannot  but  turn  aside,  while  thus  speaking  of 

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i82  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

illustrious  men,  to  observe  that  St.  Michael's,  Crooked 
Lane,  contains  also  the  ashes  of  that  doughty  chanx- 
pion,  William  Walworth,  knight,  who  so  manfully 
clove  down  the  sturdy  wight,  Wat  Tyler,  in  Smithfield; 
a  hero  worthy  of  honorable  blazon,  as  almost  the  only 
Lord  Mayor  on  record  famous  for  deeds  of  arms: — the 
sovereigns  of  Cockney^  being  generally  renowned  as 
the  most  pacific  of  all  potentates.* 

*  The  following  was  the  ancient  inscription  on  the  monument 
of  this  worthy;  which,  unhappily,  was  destroyed  in  the  great  con* 
flagration. 

Hereunder  lyth  a  man  of  Fame, 
William  Walworth  caUyd  by  name; 
Fishmonger  he  Was  in  \ySXirae  here, 
And  twise  Lord  Maior,  as  in  books  appere; 
Who,  with  courage  stout  and  manly  myght, 
Slew  Jack  Straw  in  Kyng  Richard's  sight. 
For  which  act  done,  and  trew  entent. 
The  Kyng  made  him  knyght  incontinent; 
And  gave  him  armes,  as  here  you  see, 
To  declare  his  fact  and  chivaldrie. 
He  left  this  lyfL  the  yere  of  our  God 
Thirteen  hundred  fourscore  and  three  odd. 

An  error  in  the  foregoing  inscription  has  been  corrected  by  the 
venerable  Stowe.  "  Whereas, **  «aith  he,  "it  hath  been  far  spread 
abroad  by  vulgar  opinion,  that  the  rebel  smitten  down  so  manfully 
by  Sir  William  Walworth,  the  then  worthy  Lord  Maior,  was 
named  Jack  Straw,  and  not  Wat  Tyler,  I  thought  good  to  recon- 
cile this  rash-conceived  doubt  by  such  testimony  as  I  find  in  an- 
cient and  good  records.  The  principal  leaders,  or  captains,  of 
the  commons,  were  Wat  Tyler,  as  the  first  man;  the  second  was 
John,  or  Jack,  Straw, "  etc.,  etc. 

Stowe's  London. 


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THE  BOARS  HEAD  TA  VERN,  EASTCHEAP  183 

Adjoining  the  church,  in  a  small  cemetery,  immedi- 
ately under  the  back  window  of  what  was  once  the 
Boar's  Head,  stands  the  tombstone  of  Robert  Preston, 
whilom  drawer  at  the  tavern.  It  is  now  nearly  a 
centtiry  since  this  trusty  drawer  of  good  liquor  closed 
his  bustling  career,  and  was  thus  quietly  deposited 
within  call  of  his  customers.  As  I  was  clearing  away 
the  weeds  from  his  epitaph,  the  little  sexton  drew  me 
on  one  side  with  a  mysterious  air,  and  informed  me  in 
a  low  voice,  that  once  upon  a  time,  on  a  dark  wintry 
night,  when  the  wind  was  unruly,  howling,  and  whis- 
tling, banging  about  doors  and  windows,  and  twirling 
weathercocks,  so  that  the  living  were  frightened  out 
of  their  beds,  and  even  the  dead  could  not  sleep  quietly 
in  their  graves,  the  ghost  of  honest  Preston,  which 
happened  to  be  airing  itself  in  the  chtirchyard,  was 
attracted  by  the  well-known  call  of  ''waiter"  from 
the  Boar's  Head,  and  made  its  sudden  appearance 
in  the  midst  of  aroaring  club,  just  as  the  parish  clerk 
was  singing  a  stave  from  the  ''mirre  garland  of  Captain 
Death";  to  the  discomfiture  of  sundry  train-band  cap- 
tains, and  the  conversion  of  an  infidel  attorney,  who 
became  a  zealous  Christian  on  the  spot,  and  was  never 
known  to  twi^t  the  truth  afterwards,  except  in  the 
way  of  business. 

I  beg  it  may  be  remembered  that  I  do  not  pledge 
myself  for  the  authenticity  of  this  anecdote;  though 
it  is  well  known  that  the  churchyards  and  by-corners 
of  this  old  metropoHs  are  very  much  infested  with 
perttirbed  spirits;  and  every  one  must  have  heard  of 

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^84  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

the  Cock  Lane  ghost,  and  the  apparition  that  guards 
the  regalia  in  the  Tower,  which  has  frightened  so  many 
bold  sentinels  almost  out  of  their  wits. 

Be  all  this  as  it  may,  this  Robert  Preston  seems  to 
have  been  a  worthy  successor  to  the  nimble-tongued 
Francis,  who  attended  upon  the  revels  of  Prince  Hal; 
to  have  been  equally  prompt  with  his  ''anon,  anon, 
sir*';  and  to  have  transcended  his  predecessor  in 
honesty;  for  FalstaflE,  the  veracity  of  whose  taste  no 
man  will  venture  to  impeach,  flatly  accuses  Francis  of 
putting  lime  in  his  sack;  whereas  honest  Preston's 
epitaph  lauds  him  for  the  sobriety  of  his  conduct,  the 
soimdness  of  his  wine,  and  the  fairness  of  his  measure.* 
The  worthy  dignitaries  of  the  church,  however,  did 
not  appear  much  captivated  by  the  sober  virtues  of  the 
tapster;  the  deputy  organist,  who  had  a  moist  look  out 
of  the  eye,  made  some  shrewd  remark  on  the  abstemi- 

*  As  this  inscription  is  rife  with  excellent  morality,  I  transcribe 
it  for  the  admonition  of  delinquent  tapsters.  It  is,  no  doubt,  the 
production  of  some  choice  spirit,  who  once  frequented  the  Boar's 
Head. 

Bacchus,  to  give  the  toping  worid  surprise, 
Produced  one  sober  son,  and  here  he  lies. 
Though  rear'd  among  full  hogsheads,  he  defy*d 
The  charms  of  wine,  and  every  one  beside. 
O  reader,  if  to  justice  thou'rt  inclined. 
Keep  honest  Preston  daily  in  thy  mind. 
He  drew  good  wine,  took  care  to  fill  his  pots, 
Had  sundry  virtues  that  excused  his  faults. 
You  that  on  Bacchus  have  the  like  dependence, 
Pray  copy  Bob  in  measure  and  attendance. 


yGoogk 


THE  BOARS  HEAD  TA  VERN.EASTCHEAP  i8S 

ousness  of  a  man  brought  up  among  full  hogsheads; 
and  the  little  sexton  corroborated  his  opinion  by  a 
significant  wink,  and  a  dubious  shake  of  the  head.* 

Thus  far  my  researches,  though  they  threw  much 
light  on  the  history  of  tapsters,  fishmongers,  and  Lord 
Mayors,  yet  disappointed  me  in  the  great  object  of  my 
quest,  the  picture  of  the  Boar's  Head  Tavern.  No 
such  painting  was  to  be  found  in  the  church  of  St, 
Michael.  ''Marry  and  amen!"  said  I,  ''here  endeth 
my  research!"  So  I  was  giving  the  matter  up,  with 
the  air  of  a  baffled  antiquary,  when  my  friend  the 
sexton,  perceiving  me  to  be  curious  in  everything 
relative  to  the  old  tavern,  offered  to  show  me  the 
choice  vessels  of  the  vestry,  which  had  been  handed 
down  from  remote  times,  when  the  parish  meetings 
were  held  at  the  Boar's  Head.  These  were  deposited 
in  the  parish  club-room,  which  had  been  transferred, 
on  the  decUne  of  the  ancient  estabUshment,  to  a 
tavern  in  the  neighborhood. 

A  few  steps  brought  us  to  the  house,  which  stands 
No.  12  Miles  Lane,  bearing  the  title  of  The  Mason's 
Arms,  and  is  kept  by  Master  Edward  Honeyball,  the 
"bully-rock"  of  the  establishment.  It  is  one  of  those 
little  taverns  which  abound  in  the  heart  of  the  city, 
and  form  the  centre  of  gossip  and  intelligence  of  the 
neighborhood.  We  entered  the  bar-room,  which  was 
narrow  and  darkling;  for  in  these  close  lanes  but  few 
rays  of  reflected  light  are  enabled  to  struggle  down  to 
the  inhabitants,  whose  broad  day  is  at  best  but  a 
tolerable  twiUght.    The  room  was  partitioned  into 

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1 86  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

boxes,  each  containing  a  table  spread  with  a  dean 
white  cloth,  ready  for  dinner.  This  showed  that  the 
guests  were  of  the  good  old  stamp,  and  divided  their 
day  equally,  for  it  was  but  just  one  o'clock.  At  the 
lower  end  of  the  room  was  a  clear  coal  fire,  before 
which  a  breast  of  lamb  was  roasting.  A  row  of  bright 
brass  candlesticks  and  pewter  mugs  glistened  along  the 
mantelpiece,  and  an  old-fashioned  clock  ticked  in  one 
comer.  There  was  something  primitive  in  this  medley 
of  kitchen,  parior,  and  hall,  that  carried  me  back  to 
earlier  times,  and  pleased  me.  The  place,  indeed,  was 
humble,  but  every  thing  had  that  look  of  order  and 
neatness,  which  bespeaks  the  superintendence  of  a 
notable  English  housewife.  A  group  of  amphibious- 
looking  beings,  who  might  be  either  fishermen  or 
sailors,  were  regaling  themselves  in  one  of  the  boxes. 
As  I  was  a  visitor  of  rather  higher  pretensions,  I  was 
ushered  into  a  little  misshapen  backroom,  having  at 
least  nine  comers.  It  was  lighted  by  a  skylight, 
furnished  with  antiquated  leathern  chairs,  and 
ornamented  with  the  portrait  of  a  fat  pig.  It  was  evi- 
dently appropriated  to  particular  customers,  and  I 
found  a  shabby  gentleman,  in  a  red  nose  and  oil-cloth 
hat,  seated  in  one  comer,  meditating  on  a  half-empty 
pot  of  porter. 

The  old  sexton  had  taken  the  landlady  aside,  and 
with  an  air  of  profound  importance  imparted  to  her  my 
errand.  Dame  Honeyball  was  a  likely,  plump,  bus- 
tling little  woman,  and  no  bad  substitute  for  that 
paragon  of  hostesses.  Dame  Quickly.    She  seemed 

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THE  BOARS  HEAD  TA  VERN.EASTCHEAP  187 

delighted  with  an  opportunity  to  oblige;  and  htirrying 
up-stairs  to  the  archives  of  her  house,  where  the 
precious  vessels  of  the  parish  club  were  deposited,  she 
rettuned,  smiling  and  courtesying,  with  them  in  her 
hands. 

The  first  she  presented  me  was  a  japanned  iron 
tobacco-box,  of  gigantic  size,  out  of  which,  I  was  told, 
the  vestry  had  smoked  at  their  stated  meetings,  since 
time  immemorial;  and  which  was  never  suflEered  to 
be  profaned  by  vulgar  hands  or  used  on  common 
occasions.  I  received  it  with  becoming  reverence; 
but  what  was  my  delight,  at  beholding  on  its  cover  the 
identical  painting  of  which  I  was  in  quest !  There  was 
displayed  the  outside  of  the  Boar's  Head  Tavern,  and 
before  the  door  was  to  be  seen  the  whole  convivial 
group,  at  table,  in  full  revel;  picttu-ed  with  that 
wonderful  fidelity  and  force,  with  which  the  portraits 
of  renowned  generals  and  commodores  are  illustrated 
on  tobacco-boxes,  for  the  benefit  of  posterity.  Lest, 
however,  there  should  be  any  mistake,  the  cunning 
limner  had  warily  inscribed  the  names  of  Prince  Hal 
and  FalstaflE  on  the  bottoms  of  their  chairs. 

On  the  inside  of  the  cover  was  an  inscription,  nearly 
obliterated,  recording  that  this  box  was  the  gift  of  Sir 
Richard  Gore,  for  the  use  of  the  vestry  meetings  at  the 
Boar's  Head  Tavern,  and  that  it  was  "repaired  and 
beautified  by  his  successor,  Mr.  John  Packard,  1767." 
Such  is  a  faithful  description  of  this  august  and 
venerable  relic;  and  I  question  whether  the  learned 
Scribleritis'  contemplated  his  Roman  shield,  or  the 

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I88  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

Knights  of  the  Round  Table  the  long-sought  san-greal, ' 
with  more  exultation. 

While  I  was  meditating  on  it  with  enraptured  gaze, 
Dame  Honeyball,  who  was  highly  gratified  by  the 
interest  it  excited,  put  in  my  hands  a  drinking  cup  or 
goblet,  which  also  belonged  to  the  vestry,  and  was 
descended  from  the  old  Boar's  Head.  It  bore  the 
inscription  of  having  been  the  gift  of  Francis  Wythers, 
knight,  and  was  held,  she  told  me,  in  exceeding  great 
value,  being  considered  very  "antyke."  This  last 
opinion  was  strengthened  by  the  shabby  gentleman  in 
the  red  nose  and  oil-cloth  hat,  and  whom  I  strongly 
suspected  of  being  a  lineal  descendant  from  the  valiant 
Bardolph.*  He  suddenly  roused  from  his  meditation 
on  the  pot  of  porter,  and,  casting  a  knowing  look  at  the 
goblet,  exclaimed,  **Ay,  ay!  the  head  don't  ache  now 
that  made  that  there  article!" 

The  great  importance  attached  to  this  memento  of 
ancient  revelry  by  modem  churchwardens  at  first 
puzzled  me;  but  there  is  nothing  sharpens  the  appre- 
hension so  much  as  antiquarian  research ;  for  I  immedi- 
ately perceived  that  this  could  be  no  other  than  the 
identical  "parcel-gilt  goblet"  on  which  Falstaff  made 
his  loving,  but  faithless,  vow  to  Dame  Quickly;  and 
which  would,  of  course,  be  treasured  up  with  care 
among  the  regalia  of  her  domains,  as  a  testimony  of 
that  solemn  contract.* 

*  "  Thou  didst  swear  to  me  upon  a  parcd-gUt  goblei,  sitting  in  my 
Dolphin  chamber,  at  the  rotmd  table,  by  a  sea-coal  fire,  on  Wed- 
nesday, in  Whitsunweek,  when  the  prince  broke  thy  head  for 

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THE  BOARS  HEAD  TA  VERN,  EASTCHEAP  189 

Mine  hostess,  indeed,  gave  me  a  long  history  how  the 
goblet  had  been  handed  down  from  generation  to 
generation.  She  also  entertained  me  with  many 
particulars  concerning  the  worthy  vestrymen  who 
have  seated  themselves  thtis  quietly  on  the  stools  of  the 
ancient  roysters  of  Eastcheap,  and,  like  so  many 
commentators,  utter  clouds  of  smoke  in  honor  of 
Shakespeare.  These  I  forbear  to  relate,  lest  my 
readers  should  not  be  as  curious  in  these  matters  as 
myself.  Suffice  it  to  say,  the  neighbors,  one  and  all, 
about  Eastcheap,  believe  that  FalstaflE  and  his  merry 
crew  actually  lived  and  revelled  there.  Nay,  there 
are  several  legendary  anecdotes  concerning  him  still 
extant  among  the  oldest  frequenters  of  the  Mason's 
Arms,  which  they  give  as  transmitted  down  from  their 
forefathers;  and  Mr.  M'Kash,  an  Irish  hair-dresser, 
whose  shop  stands  on  the  site  of  the  old  Boar's  Head, 
has  several  dry  jokes  of  Fat  Jack's,  not  laid  down  in  the 
books,  with  which  he  makes  his  customers  ready  to  die 
of  laughter. 

I  now  turned  to  my  friend  the  sexton  to  make 
some  further  inquiries,  but  I  found  him  sunk  in 
pensive  meditation.  His  head  had  declined  a  little  on 
one  side;  a  deep  sigh  heaved  from  the  very  bottom  of 
his  stomach;  and,  though  I  could  not  see  a  tear 
trembling  in  his  eye,  yet  a  moisture  was  evidently 


likening  his  father  to  a  singing  man  at  Windsor;  thou  didst  swear  to 
me  then,  as  I  was  washing  thy  wound,  to  many  me,  and  make  me 
my  lady,  thy  wife.  Canst  thou  deny  it?'* — Henry  IV,,  Part  IL 


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190  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

stealing  from  a  comer  of  his  mouth.  I  followed  the 
direction  of  his  eye  through  the  door  which  stood  open, 
and  found  it  fixed  wistfully  on  the  savory  breast  of 
lamb,  roasting  in  dripping  richness  before  the  fire. 

I  now  called  to  mind  that,  in  the  eagerness  of  my 
recondite  investigation,  I  was  keeping  the  poor  man 
from  his  dinner.  My  bowels  yearned  with  sympathy, 
and,  putting  in  his  hand  a  small  token  of  my  gratitude 
and  goodness,  I  departed,  with  a  hearty  benediction 
on  him.  Dame  Honeyball,  and  the  Parish  Club  of 
Crooked  Lane; — not  forgetting  my  shabby  but 
sententious  friend,  in  the  oil-cloth  hat  and  copper 
nose. 

Thus  have  I  given  a  "tedious  brief"  account  of  this 
interesting  research,  for  which,  if  it  prove  too  short  and 
imsatisfactory,  I  can  only  plead  my  inexperience  in 
this  branch  of  literature,  so  deservedly  popular  at  the 
present  day.  I  am  aware  that  a  more  skilful  illus- 
trator of  the  immortal  bard  would  have  swelled  the 
materials  I  have  touched  upon,  to  a  good  merchant- 
able bulk;  comprising  the  biographies  of  William 
Walworth,  Jack  Straw,  and  Robert  Preston;  some 
notice  of  the  eminent  fishmongers  of  St.  Michael's;  the 
history  of  Eastcheap,  great  and  little;  private  anec- 
dotes of  Dame  Honeyball,  and  her  pretty  daughter, 
whom  I  have  not  even  mentioned;  to  say  nothing  of  a 
damsel  tending  the  breast  of  lamb  (and  whom,  by  the 
way,  I  remarked  to  be  a  comely  lass,  with  a  neat  foot 
and  ankle) ; — ^the  whole  enlivened  by  the  riots  of  Wat 
Tyler,  and  illuminated  by  the  great  fire  of  London. 

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THEBOAKS HEAD  TAVERN, EASTCHEAP  191 

All  this  I  leave,  as  a  rich  mine,  to  be  worked  by 
futtire  commentators;  nor  do  I  despair  of  seeing  the 
tobacco-box,  and  the  "parcel-gilt  goblet,"  which  I 
have  thus  brought  to  light,  the  subjects  of  future 
engravings,  and  almost  as  fruitful  of  voluminous 
dissertations  and  disputes  as  the  shield  of  Achilles,  or 
the  far-famed  Portland  vase.* 


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THE  MUTABILITY  OF  LITERATURE 

A  COLLOQUY  IN  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 

I  know  that  all  beneath  the  moon  decays, 
And  what  by  mortals  in  this  world  is  brought, 
In  time's  great  period  shall  return  to  nought. 

I  know  that  all  the  muse's  heavenly  lays, 
With  toil  of  sprite  which  are  so  dearly  bought, 
As  idle  sounds,  of  few  or  none  are  sought, 

That  there  is  nothing  lighter  than  mere  praise. 

Drummond  of  Hawthornden. 

There  are  certain  half-dreaming  moods  of  mind. 
In  which  we  naturally  steal  away  from  noise  and  glare, 
and  seek  some  quiet  haunt,  where  we  may  indulge  our 
reveries  and  build  our  air  castles  undisturbed.  In 
such  a  mood  I  was  loitering  about  the  old  gray  cloisters 
of  Westminster  Abbey,  enjoying  that  luxury  of 
wandering  thought  which  one  is  apt  to  dignify  with  the 
name  of  reflection;  when  suddenly  an  interruption  of 
madcap  boys  from  Westminster  School,'  playing  at 
football,  broke  in  upon  the  monastic  stillness  of  the 
place,  making  the  vaulted  passages  and  mouldering 
tombs  echo  with  their  merriment.  I  sought  to  take 
refuge  from  their  noise  by  penetrating  still  deeper  into 
the  solitudes  of  the  pile,  and  applied  to  one  of  the 
vergers  for  admission  to  the  library.  He  conducted 
me  through  a  portal  rich  with  the  crumbling  sculpture 

192 

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THE  MUTABILITY  OF  LITERATURE    193 

of  former  ages,  which  opened  upon  a  gloomy  passage 
leading  to  the  chapter-house  and  the  chamber  in 
which  doomsday  book'  is  deposited.  Just  within  the 
passage  is  a  small  door  on  the  left.  To  this  the 
verger  applied  a  key;  it  was  double  locked,  and 
opened  with  some  difficulty,  as  if  seldom  used.  We 
now  ascended  a  dark  narrow  staircase,  and,  passing 
through  a  second  door,  entered  the  library. 

I  found  myself  in  a  lofty  antique  hall,  the  roof  sup- 
ported by  massive  joists  of  old  English  oak.  It  was 
soberly  lighted  by  a  row  of  Gothic  windows  at  a  con- 
siderable height  from  the  floor,  and  which  apparently 
opened  upon  the  roofs  of  the  cloisters.  An  ancient 
picture  of  some  reverend  dignitary  of  the  church  in  his 
robes  hung  over  the  fireplace.  Around  the  hall  and 
in  a  small  gallery  were  the  books,  arranged  in  carved 
oaken  cases.  They  consisted  principally  of  old 
polemical  writers,  and  were  much  more  worn  by 
time  than  use.  In  the  centre  of  the  library  was 
a  solitary  table  with  two  or  three  books  on  it,  an 
inkstand  without  ink,  and  a  few  pens  parched  by 
long  disuse.  The  place  seemed  fitted  for  quiet  study 
and  profound  meditation.  It  was  buried  deep  among 
the  massive  walls  of  the  abbey,  and  shut  up  from 
the  tumult  of  the  world.  I  could  only  hear  now 
and  then  the  shouts  of  the  school-boys  faintly 
swelling  from  the  cloisters,  and  the  sound  of  a  bell 
tolling  for  prayers,  echoing  soberly  along  the  roofs 
of  the  abbey.  By  degrees  the  shouts  of  merri- 
ment grew  fainter  and  fainter,  and  at  length  died 

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194  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

away;  the  bell  ceased  to  toll,  and  a  profotind  silence 
reigned  through  the  dusky  hall. 

I  had  taken  down  a  little  thick  quarto,  curiously 
botind  in  parchment,  with  brass  clasps,  and  seated  my- 
self at  the  table  in  a  venerable  elbow-chair.  Instead 
of  reading,  however,  I  was  beguiled  by  the  solemn 
monastic  air  and  lifeless  quiet  of  the  place  into  a 
train  of  musing.  As  I  looked  arotmd  upon  the  old 
volumes  in  their  mouldering  covers,  thus  ranged  on 
the  shelved,  and  apparently  never  disturbed  in  their 
repose,  I  could  not  but  consider  the  library  a  kind  of 
literary  catacomb,  where  authors,  like  mummies,  are 
piously  entombed,  and  left  to  blacken  and  moulder  in 
dusty  oblivion. 

How  much,  thought  I,  has  each  of  these  volumes, 
now  thrust  aside  with  such  indifference,  cost  some  ach- 
ing head!  how  many  weary  days!  how  many  sleepless 
nights !  How  have  their  authors  biuied  themselves  in 
the  solitude  of  cells  and  cloisters;  shut  themselves  up 
from  the  face  of  man,  and  the  still  more  blessed  face 
of  nature;  and  devoted  themselves  to  painful  research 
and  intense  reflection!  And  all  for  what?  to  occupy 
an  inch  of  dusty  shelf — to  have  the  title  of  their  works 
read  now  and  then  in  a  future  age,  by  some  drowsy 
churchman  or  casual  straggler  like  myself;  and  in 
another  age  to  be  lost,  even  to  remembrance.  Such 
is  the  amount  of  this  boasted  immortality.  A 
mere  temporary  nmior,  a  local  sotmd;  like  the  tone 
of  that  bell  which  has  just  tolled  among  these 
towers,    filling    the    ear    for  a  moraent — ^Ungering 

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THE  MUTABILITY  OF  LITERATURE   195 

transiently  in  echo — ^and  then  passing  away  like  a 
thing  that  was  not. 

While  I  sat  half  mtirmuring,  half  meditating  these 
tinprofitable  speculations  with  my  head  resting  on 
my  hand,  I  was  thrumming  with  the  other  hand  upon 
the  quarto,  until  I  accidentally  loosened  the  clasps; 
when,  to  my  utter  astonishment,  the  little  book  gave 
two  or  three  yawns,  like  one  awaking  from  a  deep 
sleep;  then  a  husky  hem;  and  at  length  began  to  talk. 
At  first  its  voice  was  very  hoarse  and  broken,  being 
much  troubled  by  a  cobweb  which  some  studious  spi- 
der had  woven  across  it;  and  having  probably  con- 
tracted a  cold  from  long  exposure  to  the  chills  and 
damps  of  the  abbey.  In  a  short  time,  however,  it 
became  more  distinct,  and  I  soon  fotmd  it  an  exceed- 
ingly fluent  conversable  little  tome.*  Its  language, 
to  be  sure,  was  rather  quaint  and  obsolete,  and  its 
pronunciation  what,  in  the  present  day,  would  be 
deemed  barbarous;  but  I  shall  endeavor,  as  far  as  I 
am  able,  to  render  it  in  modem  parlance. 

It  began  with  railings  about  the  neglect  of  the 
world — about  merit  being  sufiEered  to  languish  in  ob- 
scurity, and  other  such  commonplace  topics  of  literary 
repining,  and  complained  bitterly  that  it  had  not  been 
opened  for  more  than  two  centuries.  That  the  dean 
only  looked  now  and  then  into  the  library,  sometimes 
took  down  a  volume  or  two,  trifled  with  them  for  a  few 
moments,  and  then  returned  them  to  their  shelves. 
"What  a  plague  do  they  mean,"  said  the  little  quarto^ 
which  I  began  to  perceive  was  somewhat  choleric. 

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196  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

**what  a  plague  do  they  mean  by  keeping  several 
thousand  volumes  of  us  shut  up  here,  and  watched 
by  a  set  of  old  vergers,  like  so  many  beauties  in  a  harem, 
merely  to  be  looked  at  now  and  then  by  the  dean? 
Books  were  written  to  give  pleasure  .and  to  be  enjoyed; 
and  I  would  have  a  rule  passed  that  the  dean  should 
pay  each  of  us  a  visit  at  least  cnce  a  year;  or  if  he  is 
not  equal  to  the  task,  let  them  once  in  a  while  turn 
loose  the  whole  school  of  Westminster  among  us,  that 
at  any  rate  we  may  now  and  then  have  an  airing." 

"Softly,  my  worthy  friend, "  replied  I,  *'you  are  not 
aware  how  much  better  you  are  off  than  most  books 
of  your  generation.  •  By  being  stored  away  in  this 
ancient  library,  you  are  like  the  treasured  remains  of 
those  saints  and  monarchs  which  lie  enshrined  in  the 
adjoining  chapels;  while  the  remains  of  your  contem- 
porary mortals,  left  to  the  ordinary  course  of  nature, 
have  long  since  returned  to  dust.  *' 

''Sir,"  said  the  little  tome,  ruffling  his  leaves  and 
looking  big,  ''I  was  written  for  all  the  world,  not  for 
the  bookworms  of  an  abbey.  I  was  intended  to  cir- 
culate from  hand  to  hand,  like  other  great  contempo- 
rary works;  but  here  have  I  been  clasped  Up  fof  more 
than  two  centimes,  and  might  have  silently  fallen  a 
prey  tof  these  worms  that  are  plajdng  the  very  ven- 
geance with  my  intestines,  if  you  had  not  by  chance 
given  me  an  opporttmity  of  uttering  a  few  last  words 
before  I  go  to  pieces. " 

"My  good  friend,"  rejoined  I,  "had  you  been  left 
to  the  circulation  of  which  you  speak,  you  would  long 

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THE  MUTABILITY  OF  LITERATURE   197 

ere  this  have  been  no  more.  To  judge  from  your  physi- 
ognomy, you  are  now  well  stricken  in  years:'  very  few 
of  your  contemporaries  can  be  at  present  in  existence; 
and  those  few  owe  their  longevity  to  being  immured 
like  yourself  in  old  libraries;  which,  suffer  me  to  add, 
instead  of  likening  to  harems,  you  might  more  properly 
and  gratefully  have  compared  to  those  infirmaries  at- 
tached to  religious  establishments,  for  the  benefit  of 
the  old  and  decrepit,  and  where,  by  quiet  fostering  and 
no  employment,  they  often  endure  to  an  amazingly 
good-for-nothing  old  age.  You  talk  of  your  contem- 
poraries as  if  in  circulation — where  do  we  meet  with 
their  works?  what  do  we  hear  of  Robert  Groteste,  of 
Lincoln?  No  one  could  have  toiled  harder  than  he  for 
immortality.  He  is  said  to  have  written  nearly  two 
hundred  volumes.  He  built,  as  it  were,  a  pyramid 
of  books  to  perpetuate  his  name:  but,  alas!  the  pyra- 
mid has  long  since  fallen,  and  only  a  few  fragments 
are  scattered  in  various  libraries,  where  they  are 
scarcely  disturbed  even  by  the  antiquarian.  What 
do  we  hear  of  Giraldus  Cambrensis,  the  historian,  an- 
tiquary, philosopher,  theologian,  and  poet?  He  de- 
clined two  bishoprics,  that  he  might  shut  himself  up 
and  write  for  posterity;  but  posterity  never  inquires 
after  his  labors.  What  of  Henry  of  Htmtingdon,  who, 
besides  a  learned  history  of  England,  wrote  a  treatise 
on  the  contempt  of  the  world,  which  the  world  has  re- 
venged by  forgetting  him?  What  is  quoted  of  Joseph 
of  Exeter,  styled  the  miracle  of  his  age  in  classical  com- 
position?   Of  his  three  great  heroic  poems  one  is 

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198  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

lost  forever,  excepting  a  mere  fragment;  the  others  are 
known  only  to  a  few  of  the  curious  in  literature;  and 
as  to  his  love  verses  and  epigrams,  they  have  entirely 
disappeared.  What  is  in  current  use  of  John  Wallis, 
the  Franciscan,  who  acquired  the  name  of  the  tree 
of  life?  Of  William  of  Malmsbury; — of  Simeon  of 
Durham; — of  Benedict  of  Peterborough; — of  John 
Hanvill  of  St.  Albans;— of " 

'* Prithee,  friend,"  cried  the  quarto,  in  a  testy  tone, 
**how  old  do  you  think  me?  You  are  talking  of  au- 
thors that  lived  long  before  my  time,  and  wrote  either 
in  Latin  or  French,  so  that  they  in  a  manner  expatri- 
ated themselves,  and  deserved  to  be  forgotten* ;  but,  I, 
sir,  was  ushered  into  the  world  from  the  press  of  the 
renowned  Wynkyn  de  Worde.  I  was  written  in  my 
own  native  tongue,  at  a  time  when  the  language  had 
become  fixed;  and  indeed  I  was  considered  a  model 
of  pure  and  elegant  English." 

(I  should  observe  that  these  remarks  were  couched 
in  such  intolerably  antiquated  terms,  that  I  have  had 
infinite  difficulty  in  rendering  them  into  modem 
phraseology.) 

"I  cry  your  mercy,"  said  I,  "for  mistaking  your 
age;  but  it  matters  little:  almost  all  the  writers  of  your 

*  In  Latin  and  French  hath  many  soueraine  wittes  had  great 
delyte  to  endite,  and  have  many  noble  thinges  fulfilde,  but  certes 
there  ben  some  that  speaken  their  poisye  in  French,  of  which 
speche  the  Frenchmen  have  as  good  a  fantasye  as  we  have  in 
hearying  of  Frenchmen's  Englishe.  Chaucer's  Testament  of 
Love, 


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THE  MUTABILITY  OF  LITERATURE  199 

time  have  likewise  passed  into  forgetfulness;  and  De 
Worde's  publications  are  mere  literary  rarities  among 
book-collectors.  The  purity  and  stability  of  language, ' 
too,  on  which  you  found  your  claims  to  perpetuity, 
have  been  the  fallacious  dependence  of  authors  of 
every  age,  even  back  to  the  times  of  the  worthy  Robert 
of  Gloucester,  who  wrote  his  history  in  rhymes  of 
mongrel  Saxon.*  Even  now  many  talk  of  Spenser's 
'well  of  pure  English  tmdefiled,'  as  if  the  language 
ever  sprang  from  a  well  or  fountain-head,  and  was  not 
rather  a  mere  confluence  of  various  tongues,  perpetu- 
ally subject  to  changes  and  intermixtures.  It  is  this 
which  has  made  English  literature  so  extremely  muta- 
ble, and  the  reputation  built  upon  it  so  fleeting.  Un- 
less thought  can  be  committed  to  something  more  per- 
manent and  imchangeable  than  such  a  medium,  even 
thought  must  share  the  fate  of  everything  else,  and 
fall  into  decay.  This  should  serve  as  a  check  upon 
the  vanity  and  exultation  of  the  most  popular  writer. 
He  finds  the  language  in  which  he  has  embarked  his 
fame  gradually  altering,  and  subject  to  the  dilapida- 
tions of  time  and  the  caprice  of  fashion.    He  looks 

*  Holinshed,  in  his  Chronicle^  observes,  "afterwards,  also,  by 
deligent  travell  of  Geffry  Chaucer  and  of  John  Gowre,  in  the  time 
of  Richard  the  Second,  and  after  them  of  John  Scogan  and  John 
Lydgate,  monke  of  Berrie,  our  said  toong  was  brought  to  an 
excellent  passe,  notwithstanding  that  it  never  came  unto  the 
type  of  perfection  until  the  time  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  wherein 
John  Jewell,  Bishop  of  Sarum,  John  Fox,  and  simdrie  learned  and 
excellent  writers,  have  fully  accomplished  the  omature  of  the 
same,  to  their  great  praise  and  immortal  commendation. " 

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200  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

back  and  beholds  the  early  authors  of  his  cotintry, 
once  the  favorites  of  their  day,  supplanted  by  modem 
writers.  A  few  short  ages  have  covered  them  with 
obscurity,  and  their  merits  can  only  be  relished  by  the 
quaint  taste  of  the  bookworm.  And  such,  he  antici- 
pates, will  be  the  fate  of  his  own  work,  which,  however 
it  may  be  admired  in  its  day,  and  held  up  as  a  model  of 
purity,  will  in  the  course  of  years  grow  antiquated  and 
obsolete;  tmtil  it  shall  become  almost  as  unintelligible 
in  its  native  land  as  an  Egyptian  obelisk,  or  one  of 
those  Runic  inscriptions  said  to  exist  in  the  deserts  of 
Tartary.  I  declare,"  added  I,  with  some  emotion, 
'*  when  I  contemplate  a  modem  library,  filled  with  new 
works,  in  all  the  bravery  of  rich  gilding  and  binding,  I 
feel  disposed  to  sit  down  and  weep;  like  the  good 
Xerxes,  when  he  surveyed  his  army,  pranked  out  in 
all  the  splendor  of  military  array,  and  reflected  that 
in  one  hundred  years  not  one  of  them  would  be  in 
existence!" 

''Ah,"  said  the  little  quarto,  with  a  heavy  sigh,  "I 
see  how  it  is;  these  modem  scribblers  have  superseded 
all  the  good  old  authors.  I  suppose  nothing  is  read 
nowadays  but  Sir  Philip  Sydney's -4  raidia,  Sackville's 
stately  plays,  and  Mirror  for  Magistrates^  or  the  fine- 
sptm  euphuisms  of  the  *imparalleled  John  Lyly.'" 

"There  you  are  again  mistaken,"  said  I;  "the 
writers  whom  you  suppose  in  vogue,  because  they  hap- 
pened to  be  so  when  you  were  last  in  circulation,  have 
long  since  had  their  day.  Sir  Philip  Sydney's  Arcadia^ 
the  immortaUty  of  which  was  so  fondly  predicted  by 

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THE  MUTABILITY  OF  LITERATURE  20i 

his  admirers,*  and  which  in  truth,  is  full  of  noble 
thoughts,  delicate  images,  and  graceful  turns  of  lan- 
guage, is  now  scarcely  ever  mentioned.  Sackville 
has  strutted  into  obscurity;  and  even  Lyly,  though  his 
writings  were  once  the  delight  of  a  court,  and  ap- 
parently perpetuated  by  a  proverb,  is  now  scarcely 
known  even  by  name.  A  whole  crowd  of  authors  who 
wrote  and  wrangled  at  the  time  have  likewise  gone 
down,  with  all  their  writings  and  their  controversies. 
Wave  after  wave  of  succeeding  literature  has  rolled 
over  them,  tmtil  they  are  buried  so  deep,  that  it  is 
only  now  and  then  that  some  industrious  diver  after 
fragments  of  antiquity  brings  up  a  specimen  for  the 
gratification  of  the  curious. 

*'For  my  part,"  I  continued,  "I  consider  this  muta- 
bility of  language  a  wise  precaution  of  Providence  for 
,  the  benefit  of  the  world  at  large,  and  of  authors  in 
particular.  To  reason  from  analogy,  we  daily  behold 
the  varied  and  beautiful  tribes  of  vegetables  springing 
up,  flourishing,  adorning  the  fields  for  a  short  time, 
and  then  fading  into  dust,  to  make  way  for  their  suc- 
cessors. Were  not  this  the  case,  the  fecundity  of 
nature  would  be  a  grievance  instead  of  a  blessing.   The 

*  Live  ever  sweete  booke;  the  simple  image  of  his  gentle  witt, 
and  the  golden-pillar  of  his  noble  courage;  and  ever  notify  unto 
the  world  that  thy  writer  was  the  secretary  of  eloquence,  the 
breath  of  the  muses,  the  honey-bee  of  the  daintyest  flowers  of 
witt  and  arte,  the  pith  of  morale  and  intellectual  virtues,  the  arme 
of  Bellona  in  the  field,  the  tonge  of  Suada  in  the  chamber,  the 
sprite  of  Practise  in  esse,  and  the  paragon  of  excellency  in  print. 
—Harvey  Pierce's  Supererogation. 


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202  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

earth  woiild  groan  with  rank  and  excessive  vegetation, ' 
and  its  siirface  become  a  tangled  wilderness.  In 
like  manner  the  works  of  genius  and  learning  decline, 
and  make  way  for  subsequent  productions.  Language 
gradually  varies,  and  with  it  fade  away  the  writings 
of  authors  who  have  flotuished  their  allotted  time; 
otherwise,  the  creative  powers  of  genius  would  over- 
stock the  world,  and  the  mind  would  be  completely 
bewildered  in  the  endless  mazes  of  literature.  For- 
merly there  were  some  restraints  on  this  excessive 
multiplication.  Works  had  to  be  transcribed  by  hand, 
which  was  a  slow  and  laborious  operation;  they  were 
written  either  on  parchment,  which  was  expensive, 
so  that  one  work  was  often  erased  to  make  way  for 
another;  or  on  papyrus,  which  was  fragile  and  ex- 
tremely perishable.  Authorship  was  a  limited  and  un- 
profitable craft,  pursued  chiefly  by  monks  in  the  leisure . 
and  solitude  of  their  cloisters.  The  accumulation 
of  manuscripts  was  slow  and  costly,  and  confined  al- 
most entirely  to  monasteries.  To  these  circumstances 
it  may,  in  some  measure,  be  owing  that  we  have  not 
been  inundated  by  the  intellect  of  antiquity;  that  the 
fountains  of  thought  have  not  been  broken  up,  and 
modem  genius  drowned  in  the  deluge.  But  the 
inventions  of  paper  and  the  press  have  put  an  end 
to  all  these  restraints.  They  have  made  every  one  a 
writer,  and  enabled  every  mind  to  pour  itself  into 
print,  and  diffuse  itself  over  the  whole  intellectual 
world.  The  consequences  are  alarming.  The  stream 
of  literature  has  swollen  into  a  torrent — ^augmented 

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THE  MUTABILITY  OF  LITERATURE  203 

into  a  river — expanded  into  a  sea.  A  few  centimes 
since,  five  or  six  hundred  manuscripts  constituted  a 
great  library;  but  what  would  you  say  to  libraries 
such  as  actually  exist,  containing  three  or  four  hun- 
dred thousand  volumes;  legions  of  authors  at  the 
same  time  busy;  and  the  press  going  on  with  fear- 
fully increasing  activity,  to  double  and  quadruple  the 
ntunber?  Unless  some  tmforeseen  mortality  should 
break  out  among  the  progeny  of  the  muse,  now  that 
she  has  become  so  prolific,  I  tremble  for  posterity. 
I  fear  the  mere  fluctuation  of  language  will  not  be 
sufficient.  Criticism  may  do  much.  It  increases 
with  the  increase  of  literature,  and  resembles  one  of 
those  salutary  checks  on  population  spoken  of  by  econ- 
omists. '  All  possible  encouragement,  therefore,  should 
be  given  to  the  growth  of  critics,  good  or  bad.  But  I 
fear  all  will  be  in  vain;  let  criticism  do  what  it  may, 
writers  will  write,  printers  will  print,  and  the  world 
will  inevitably  be  overstocked  with  good  books.  It 
will  soon  be  the  employment  of  a  lifetime  merely  to 
learn  their  names.  Many  a  man  of  passable  informa- 
tion, at  the  present  day,  reads  scarcely  anything  but 
reviews;  and  before  long  a  man  of  erudition  will  be 
little  better  than  a  mere  walking  catalogue.** 

"  My  very  good  sir, "  said  the  little  quarto,  yawning 
most  drearily  in  my  face,  '* excuse  my  interrupting 
you,  but  I  perceive  you  are  rather  given  to  prose.  I 
would  ask  the  fate  of  an  author  who  was  making  some 
noise  just  as  I  left  the  world.  His  reputation,  how- 
ever, was  considered  quite  temporary.    The  learned 

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«04  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

shook  their  heads  at  him,  for  he  was  a  poor  half-edu- 
cated varlet,  that  knew  little  of  Latin,  and  nothing  of 
Greek,  and  had  been  obliged  to  run  the  country  for 
deer-stealing.  I  think  his  name  was  Shakespeare.  '  I 
presume  he  soon  stmk  into  oblivion." 

"On  the  contrary, "  said  I,  ''it  is  owing  to  that  very 
man  that  the  literature  of  his  period  has  experienced 
a  duration  beyond  the  ordinary  term  of  English  liter- 
ature. There  rise  authors  now  and  then,  who  seem 
proof  against  the  mutability  of  language,  because  they 
have  rooted  themselves  in  the  tmchanging  principles 
of  human  nature.  They  are  like  gigantic  trees  that 
we  sometimes  see  on  the  banks  of  a  stream;  which,  by 
their  vast  and  deep  roots,  penetrating  through  the 
mere  surface,  and  laying  hold  on  the  very  fotmdations 
of  the  earth,  preserve  the  soil  around  them  from  being 
swept  away  by  the  ever-flowing  current,  and  hold  up 
many  a  neighboring  plant,  and,  perhaps,  worthless 
weed,  to  perpetuity.  Such  is  the  case  with  Shake- 
speare, whom  we  behold  defying  the  encroachments  of 
time,  retaining  in  modem  use  the  language  and  litera- 
ture of  his  day,  and  giving  duration  to  many  an  in- 
different author,  merely  from  having  floiuished  in  his 
vicinity.  But  even  he,  I  grieve  to  say,  is  gradually  as- 
suming the  tint  of  age,  and  his  whole  form  is  overrun 
by  a  profusion  of  commentators,  who,  like  clambering 
vines  and  creepers,  almost  bury  the  noble  plant  that 
upholds  them. " 

Here  the  little  quarto  began  to  heave  his  sides  and 
chuckle,  until  at  length  he  broke  out  in  a  plethoric 

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THE  MUTABILITY  OF  LITERATURE  205 

fit  of  laughter  that  had  well  nigh  choked  him,  by  rea- 
son of  his  excessive  corptilency.  "Mighty  well!" 
cried  he,  as  soon  as  he  could  recover  breath,  **  mighty 
well!  and  so  you  would  persuade  me  that  the  litera- 
tiu^e  of  an  age  is  to  be  perpetuated  by  a  vagabond 
deer-stealer!  by  a  man  without  learning;  by  a  poet, 
forsooth — ^a  poet!"  And  here  he  wheezed  forth 
another  fit  of  laughter. 

I  confess  that  I  felt  somewhat  nettled  at  this  rude- 
ness, which,  however,  I  pardoned  on  account  of  his 
having  flourished  in  a  less  polished  age.  I  determined, 
nevertheless,  not  to  give  up  my  point. 

"Yes,"  resumed  I,  positively,  "a  poet;  for  of  all 
writers  he  has  the  best  chance  for  immortality.  Others 
may  write  from  the  head,  but  he  writes  from  the  heart, 
and  the  heart  will  always  understand  him.  He  is  the 
faithful  portrayer  of  natiu^e,  ^  whose  f eatiu^es  are  always 
the  same  and  always  interesting.  Prose  writers  are 
voluminous  and  unwieldy;  their  pages  are  crowded 
with  commonplaces,  and  their  thoughts  expanded 
into  tediousness.  But  with  the  true  poet  everything 
is  terse,  touching,  or  brilliant.  He  gives  the  choicest 
thoughts  in  the  choicest  language.  He  illustrates 
them  by  everything  that  he  sees  most  striking  in 
nature  and  art.  He  enriches  them  by  pictures  of 
human  life,  such  as  it  is  passing  before  him.  His 
writings,  therefore,  contain  the  spirit,  the  aroma,  if  I 
may  use  the  phrase,  of  the  age  in  which  he  lives.  They 
are  caskets  which  inclose  within  a  small  compass  the 
wealth  of  the  language — ^its  family  jewels,  which  are 

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206  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

thus  transmitted  in  a  portable  form  to  posterity.  The 
setting  may  occasionally  be  antiquated,  and  require 
now  and  then  to  be  renewed,  as  in  the  case  of  Chaucer; 
but  the  brilliancy  and  intrinsic  value  of  the  gems  con- 
tinue unaltered.  Cast  a  look  back  over  the  long 
reach  of  literary  history.  What  vast  valleys  of  dulness 
filled  with  monkish  legends  and  academical  contro- 
versies! what  bogs  of  theological  speculations!  what 
dreary  wastes  of  metaphysics?  Here  and  there  only 
do  we  behold  the  heaven-illuminated  bards,  elevated 
like  beacons  on  their  widely-separate  heights,  to  trans- 
mit the  piu^e  light  of  poetical  intelligence  from  age 
to  age."* 

I  was  just  about  to  launch  forth  into  eulogiums  upon 
the  poets  of  the  day,  when  the  sudden  opening  of  the 
door  caused  me  to  turn  my  head.  It  was  the  verger, 
who  came  to  inform  me  that  it  was  time  to  close  the 
library.     I  sought  to  have  a  parting  word  with  the 

*  Thorow  earth  and  waters  deepe, 
The  pen  by  skill  doth  passe: 
And  featly  nyps  the  worldes  abuse, 

And  shoes  us  in  a  glasse, 
The  vertu  and  the  vice 
Of  every  wight  alyve; 
The  honey  comb  that  bee  doth  make 
Is  not  so  sweet  in  hjrve. 

As  are  the  golden  leves 

That  drop  from  poet's  head! 
Which  doth  surmount  our  common  talke 

As  farre  as  dross  doth  lead. 

Churchyard. 


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THE  MUTABILITY  OF  LITERATURE  207 

quarto,  but  the  worthy  little  tome  was  silent;  the 
clasps  were  closed:  and  it  looked  perfectly  unconscious 
of  all  that  had  passed.  I  have  been  to  the  library  two 
or  three  times  since,  and  have  endeavored  to  draw  it 
into  further  conversation,  but  in  vain;  and  whether  aJl 
this  rambling  colloquy  actually  took  place,  or  whether 
it  was  another  of  those  odd  day-dreams  to  which  I 
am  subject,  I  have  never  to  this  moment  been  able  to 
discover. 


yGooQie 


RURAL  FUNERALS 

Here 's  a  few  flowers!  but  about  midnight  more: 
The  herbs  that  have  on  them  cold  dew  o*  the  night; 
Are  strewings  fittest  for  graves — 
You  were  as  flowers  now  withered;  even  so 
These  herblets  shall,  which  we  upon  you  strow. 

Cymbeline. 

Among  the  beautiftil  and  simple-hearted  customs 
of  niral  life  which  still  linger  in  some  parts  of  Eng- 
land, are  those  of  strewing  flowers  before  the  funerals, 
and  planting  them  at  the  graves  of  departed  friends. 
These,  it  is  said,  are  the  remains  of  some  of  the  rites 
of  the  primitive  chiu-ch;  but  they  are  of  still  higher 
antiquity,  having  been  observed  among  the  Greeks 
and  Romans,  and  frequently  mentioned  by  their 
writers,  and  were,  no  doubt,  the  spontaneous  tributes 
of  unlettered  affection,  originating  long  before  art  had 
tasked  itself  to  modulate  sorrow  into  song,  or  story 
it  on  the  monument.  They  are  now  only  to  be  met 
with  in  the  most  distant  and  retired  places  of  the  king- 
dom, where  fashion  and  innovation  have  not  been  able 
to  throng  in,  and  trample  out  all  the  curious  and  in- 
teresting traces  of  the  olden  time. 

In  Glamorganshire,  we  are  told,  the  bed  whereon 
the  corpse  lies  is  covered  with  flowers,  a  custom  alluded 
to  in  one  of  the  wild  and  plaintive  ditties  of  Ophelia: 

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RURAL  FUNERALS  C09 

White  his  shroud  as  the  mountain  snow 

Larded  all  with  sweet  flowers; 
Which  be-wept  to  the  grave  did  go, 

With  true  love  showers. 

There  is  also  a  most  delicate  and  beautiftil  rite  ob- 
served in  some  of  the  remote  villages  of  the  south,  at 
the  funeral  of  a  female  who  has  died  young  and  un- 
married. A  chaplet  of  white  flowers  is  borne  before 
the  corpse  by  a  young  girl  nearest  in  age,  size,  and  re- 
semblance, and  is  afterwards  htmg  up  in  the  church 
over  the  accustomed  seat  of  the  deceased.  These 
chaplets  are  sometimes  made  of  white  paper,  in  imi- 
tation of  flowers,  and  inside  of  them  is  generally  a 
pair  of  white  gloves.  They  are  intended  as  emblems  of 
the  purity  of  the  deceased,  and  the  crown  of  glory 
which  she  has  received  in  heaven. 

In  some  parts  of  the  country,  also,  the  dead  are 
carried  to  the  grave  with  the  singing  of  psalms  and 
hjnnnsr.a  kind  of  triumph,  "to  show,"  says  Bourne, 
"that  they  have  finished  their  course  with  joy,  and 
are  become  conquerors."  This,  I  am  informed,  is 
observed  in  some  of  the  northern  counties,  particularly 
in  Northtimberland,  and  it  has  a  pleasing,  though  mel- 
ancholy effect,  to  hear,  of  a  still  evening,  in  some  lonely 
coimtry  scene,  the  mournful  melody  of  a  funeral  dirge 
swelling  from  a  distance,  and  to  see  the  train  slowly 
moving  along  the  landscape. 

Thus,  thus,  and  thus,  we  compass  round 
Thy  harmlesse  and  unhaunted  ground^ 

H 

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CIO  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

And  as  we  sing  thy  dirge,  we  will 

ThedaffodiU 
And  other  flowers  lay  upon 
The  altar  of  our  love,  thy  stone. 

Herrick. 

There  is  also  a  solemn  respect  paid  by  the  traveller  to 
the  passing  funeral  in  these  sequestered  places;  for 
such  spectacles,  occurring  among  the  quiet  abodes  of 
nature,  sink  deep  into  the  soul.  As  the  mourning 
train  approaches,  he  pauses,  uncovered,  to  let  it  go 
by;  he  then  follows  silently  in  the  rear;  sometimes  quite 
to  the  grave,  at  other  times  for  a  few  hundred  yards, 
and,  having  paid  this  tribute  of  respect  to  the  deceased, 
turns  and  restmies  his  journey. 

The  rich  vein  of  melancholy  which  runs  through 
the  English  character,  and  gives  it  some  of  its  most 
touching  and  ennobling  graces,  is  finely  evidenced 
in  these  pathetic  customs,  and  in  the  solicitude 
shown  by  the  common  people  for  an  honored  and 
a  peaceful  grave.  The  humblest  peasant,  whatever 
may  be  his  lowly  lot  while  living,  is  anxious  that 
some  little  respect  may  be  paid  to  his  remains.  Sir 
Thomas  Overbury,  describing  the  "faire  and  happy 
milkmaid,"  observes,  '*thus  lives  she,  and  all  her 
care  is,  tha»t  she  may  die  in  the  spring-time,  to 
have  store  of  flowers  stucke  upon  her  winding- 
sheet."  The  poets,  too,  who  always  breathe  the 
feeling  of  a  nation,  continually  advert  to  this  fond 
solicitude  about  the  grave.  In  The  Maid^s  Tragedy 
by  Beatunont  and  Fletcher,  there  is  a  beautiful  in- 
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RURAL  FUNERALS  211 

stance  of  the  kind,  describing  the  capricious  melan- 
choly of  a  broken-hearted  giri; 

When  she  sees  a  bank 
Stuck  full  of  flowers,  ^e,  with  a  sigh,  will  tell 
Her  servants,  what  a  pretty  place  it  were 
To  bury  lovers  in;  and  make  her  maids 
Pluck  *em,  and  strew  her  over  like  a  corse. 

The  custom  of  decorating^raves  was  once  universally 
prevalent :  osiers  were  carefully  bent  over  them  to  keep 
the  turf  uninjured,  and  about  them  were  planted  ever- 
greens and  flowers.  ''  We  adorn  their  graves, '  *  says  Ev- 
elyn, in  his  Sylva,  '*  with  flowers  and  redolent  plants,  just 
emblems  of  the  life  of  man,  which  has  been  compared  in 
Holy  Scriptures  to  those  fading  beauties,  whose  roots 
being  buried  in  dishonor,  rise  again  in  glory."'  This 
usage  has  now  become  extremely  rare  in  England ;  but  it 
may  still  be  met  with  in  the  churchyards  of  retired  vil- 
lages, among  the  Welsh  mountains ;  and  I  recollect  an  in- 
stance of  it  at  the  small  town  of  Ruthen,  which  lies  at  the 
head  of  the  beautiful  vale  of  Clewyd.  I  have  been  told 
also  by  a  friend,  who  was  present  at  the  funeral  of  a 
yotmg  girl  in  Glamorganshire,  that  the  female  attend- 
ants had  their  aprons  full  of  flowers,  which,  as  soon  as 
the  body  was  interred,  they  stuck  about  the  grave. 

He  noticed  several  graves  which  had  been  decorated 
in  the  same  manner.  As  the  flowers  had  been  merely 
stuck  in  the  ground,  and  not  planted,  they  had  soon 
withered,  and  might  be  seen  in  various  states  of  decay; 
some  drooping,  others  quite  perished.    They  were 

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612  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

^afterwards  to  be  supplanted  by  holly,  rosemary,  and 
other  evergreens;  which  on  some  graves  had  grown  to 
great  luxuriance,  and  overshadowed  the  tombstones. 
There  was  formerly  a  melancholy  fancifulness  in 
the  arrangement  of  these  rustic  offerings,  that  had 
something  in  it  truly  poetical.  The  rose  was  some- 
times blended  with  the  lily,  to  form  a  general  emblem 
of  frail  mortality.  "This  sweet  flower,"  said  Evelyn, 
''borne  on  a  branch  set  with  thorns,  and  accompanied 
with  the  lily,  are  natural  hieroglyphics  of  our  fugitive, 
umbratile,  anxious,  and  transitory  life,  which,  making  so 
fair  a  show  for  a  time,  is  not  yet  without  its  thorns  and 
crosses."  The  nature  and  color  of  the  flowers,  and  of 
the  ribbons  with  which  they  were  tied,  had  often  a 
particular  reference  to  the  qualities  or  story  of  the 
deceased,  or  were  expressive  of  the  feelings  of  the 
mourner.  In  an  old  poem,  entitled  Corydon's  Doleful 
Knell  a  lover  specifies  the  decorations  he  intends  to  use: 

A  garland  shall  be  framed 

By  art  and  nature's  skill. 
Of  sundry-color*d  flowers, 

In  token  of  good- will. 

And  sundry-color'd  ribands 

On  it  I  will  bestow; 
Ettt  chiefly  blacke  and  yellowe 

With  her  to  grave  shall  go. 

1 11  deck  her  tomb  with  flowers. 

The  rarest  ever  seen; 
And  with  my  tears  as  showers, 

I  '11  keep  them  fresh  and  green. 

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RURAL  FUNERALS  213 

The  white  rose,  we  are  told,  was  planted  at  the  grave 
of  a  virgin;  her  chaplet  was  tied  with  white  ribbons,  in 
token  of  her  spotless  innocence ;  though  sometimes  black 
ribbons  were  intermingled,  to  bespeak  the  grief  of  the 
survivors.  The  red  rose  was  occasionally  used  in  re- 
membrance of  such  as  had  been  remarkable  for  benevo- 
lence; but  roses  in  general  were  appropriated  to  the 
graves  of  lovers.  Evelyn  tell§  us  that  the  custom  was 
not  altogether  extinct  in  his  time,  near  his  dwelling  in  the 
county  of  Surrey,  ''where  the  maidens  yearly  planted 
and  decked  the  graves  of  their  defunct  sweethearts  with 
rose-bushes."  And  Camden  likewise  remarks,  in  his 
Britannia:  ''Here  is  also  a  certain  custom,  observed 
time  out  of  mind, of  planting  rose-trees  upon  the  graves, 
especially  by  the  young  men  and  maids  who  have  lost 
their  loves ;  so  that  this  churchyard  is  now  full  of  them. " 

When  the  deceased  had  been  unhappy  in  their  loves, 
emblems  of  a  more  gloomy  character  were  used,  such 
as  the  yew  and  cypress;  and  i^  flowers  were  strewn, 
they  were  of  the  most  melancholy  colors.  Thus,  in 
poems  by  Thomas  Stanley,  Esq.  (published  in  1651), 
is  the  following  stanza: 

Yet  strew 
Upon  my  dismall  grave 
Such  offerings  as  you  have, 

Forsaken  cypresse  and  sad  ye  we; 
For  kinder  flowers  can  take  no  birth 
Or  growth  from  such  unhappy  earth. 

In  The  Maid's  Tragedy ^  a  pathetic  little  air  is  in- 
troduced, illustrative  of  this  mode  of  decorating  the 


yGoogk 


CI4  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

funerals  of  females  who  had  been  disappointed  in  love* 

Lay  a  garland  on  my  hearse, 

Of  the  dismall  yew, 
Maidens,  willow  branches  wear, 

Say  I  died  true. 

My  love  was  false,  but  I  was  firm, 

From  my  hour  of  birth, 
Upon  my  buried  body  lie 

Lightly,  gentle  earth. 

The  nattiral  effect  of  sorrow  over  the  dead  is  to  refine 
and  elevate  the  mind;  and  we  have  a  proof  of  it  in  the 
purity  of  sentiment  and  the  unaffected  elegance  of 
thought  which  pervaded  the  whole  of  these  fimeral 
observances.  Thus,  it  was  an  especial  precaution 
that  non6  but  sweet-scented  evergreens  and  flow- 
ers should  be  employed.  The  intention  seems  to 
have  been  to  soften  the  horrors  of  the  tomb,  to 
beguile  the  mind  from  brooding  over  the  disgraces 
of  perishing  mortality,  and  to  associate  the  mem- 
ory of  the  deceased  with  the  most  delicate  and 
beautiful  objects  in  nature.  There  is  a  dismal  process 
going  on  in  the  grave,  ere  dust  can  retunl  to  its  kin- 
dred dust,  which  the  imagination  sinks  from  contem- 
plating; and  we  seek  still  to  think  of  the  form  we  have 
loved,  with  those  refined  associations  which  it  awak- 
ened when  blooming  before  us  in  youth  and  beauty. 
**  Lay  her  i*  the  earth,"  says  Laertes,  ^  of  his  virgin  sister, 

And  from  her  fair  and  unpolluted  flesh 
May  violets  spring! 

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RURAL  FUNERALS  C15 

Henick,  also,  in  his  Dirge  of  Jephtha,^  pours  forth 
a  fragrant  flow  of  poetical  thought  and  image,  which 
in  a  manner  embalms  the  dead  in  the  recollections  of 
the  living. 

Sleep  in  thy  peace,  thy  bed  of  spice, 
And  make  this  place  all  Paradise: 
May  sweets  grow  here!  and  smoke  from  hence 
Fat  frankincense. 

Let  balme  and  cassia  send  their  scent 

From  out  thy  maiden  monument. 


May  all  shie  maids  at  wonted  hours 

Come  forth  to  strew  thy  tombe  with  flowers  I 

May  virgins,  when  they  come  to  mourn, 

Male-incense  bum     . 
Upon  thine  altar!  then  return 
And  leave  thee  sleeping  in  thine  urn. 

I  might  crowd  my  pages  with  extracts  from  the 
older  British  poets  who  wrote  when  these  rites  were 
more  prevalent,  and  delighted  frequently  to  allude 
to  them;  but  I  have  already  quoted  more  than  is 
necessary.  I  cannot  however  refrain  from  giving  a 
passage  from  Shakespeare,^  even  though  it  should  ap- 
pear trite;  which  illustrates  the  emblematical  meaning 
often  conveyed  in  these  floral  tributes ;  and  at  the  same 
time  possesses  that  magic  of  language  and  appositeness 
of  imagery  for  which  he  stands  pre-eminent. 

With  fairest  flowers. 
Whilst  summer  lasts,  and  I  live  here,  Fidele, 
I  'U  sweeten  thy  sad  grave;  thou  shalt  not  lack 


yGoogk 


ci6  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

The  flower  that 's  like  thy  face,  pale  primrose;  nor 
The  azured  harebell,  like  thy  veins;  no,  nor 
The  leaf  of  eglantine;  whom  not  to  slander, 
Outsweeten'd  not  thy  breath. 

There  is  certainly  something  more  affecting  in 
these  prompt  and  spontaneous  offerings  of  nature,  than 
in  the  most  costly  monuments  of  art;  the  hand 
strews  the  flower  while  the  heart  is  warm,  and  the 
tear  falls  on  the  grave  as  affection  is  binding  the  osier 
round  the  sod ;  but  pathos  expires  under  the  slow  labor 
of  the  chisel,  and  is  chilled  among  the  cold  conceits 
of  sculptiu-ed  marble. 

It  is  greatly  to  be  regretted  that  a  custom  so  truly 
elegant  and  touching  has  disappeared  from  general 
use,  and  exists  only  in  the  most  remote  and  insignifi- 
cant villages.  But  it  seems  as  if  poetical  custom 
always  shuns  the  walks  of  cultivated  society.  In  pro- 
portion as  people  grow  polite  they  cease  to  be  poetical. 
They  talk  of  poetry,  but  they  have  learnt  to  check  its 
free  impulses,  to  distrust  its  sallying  emotions,  and  to 
supply  its  most  affecting  and  picturesque  usages,  by 
studied  form  and  pompous  ceremonial.  Few  pageants 
can  be  more  stately  and  frigid  than  an  English  f imeral 
in  town.  It  is  made  up  of  show  and  gloomy  parade; 
mourning  carriages,  mourning  horses,  motuning 
plumes,  and  hireling  mourners,,  who  make  a  mockery 
of  grief.  "  There  is  a  grave  digged,  **  says  Jeremy  Tay- 
lor,* "and  a  solemn  mourning  and  a  great  talk  in  the 
neighborhood,  and  when  the  daies  are  finished,  they 
shall  be,  and  they  shall  be  remembered  no  more." 

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RURAL  FUNERALS  217 

The  associate  in  the  gay  and  crowded  city  is  soon  for- 
gotten; the  hurrying  succession  of  new  intimates  and 
new  pleasures  effaces  him  from  our  minds,  and  the 
very  scenes  and  circles  in  which  he  moved  are  inces- 
santly fluctuating.  But  funerals  in  the  country  are 
solemnly  impressive.  The  stroke  of  death  makes  a 
wider  space  in  the  village  circle,  and  is  an  awful  event 
in  the  tranqtiil  uniformity  of  rural  life.  The  passing 
bell  tolls  its  knell  in  every  ear;  it  steals  with  its  per- 
vading melancholy  over  hill  and  vale,  and  saddens  all 
the  landscape. 

The  fixed  and  tmchanging  features  of  the  country 
also  perpetuate  the  memory  of  the  friend  with  whom 
we  once  enjoyed  them;  who  was  the  companion  of  our 
most  retired  walks  and  gave  animation  to  every  lonely 
scene.  His  idea  is  associated  with  every  charm  of 
nature;  we  hear  his  voice  in  the  echo  which  he  once 
delighted  to  awaken;  his  spirit  haunts  the  grove 
which  he  once  frequented;  we  think  of  him  in  the 
wild  upland  solitude,  or  amidst  the  pensive  beauty 
of  the  valley.  In  the  freshness  of  joyous  morning, 
we  remember  his  beaming  smiles  and  bounding 
gayety;  and  when  sober  evening  returns  with  its 
gathering  shadows  and  subduing  quiet,  we  call  to 
mind  many  a  twilight  hour  of  gentle  talk  and  sweet- 
souled  melancholy. 

Each  lonely  place  shall  him  restore, 

For  him  the  tear  be  duly  shed; 
Belov'd,  till  life  can  charm  no  more; 

And  moum'd  till  pity's  self  be  dead.  \ 

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2i8  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

Another  cause  that  perpetuates  the  memory  of  the 
deceased  in  the  country  is  that  the  grave  is  more  im- 
mediately in  sight  of  the  survivors.  They  pass  it  on 
their  way  to  prayer,  it  meets  their  eyes  when  their 
hearts  are  softened  by  the  exercises  of  devotion;  they 
linger  about  it  on  the  Sabbath,  when  the  mind  is  dis- 
engaged from  worldly  cares,  and  most  disposed  to 
tiim  aside  from  present  pleasures  and  present  loves, 
and  to  sit  down  among  the  solemn  mementos  of  the 
past.  In  North  Wales  the  peasantry  kneel  and  pray 
over  the  graves  of  their  deceased  friends,  for  several 
Simdays  after  the  interment;  and  where  the  tender  rite 
of  strewing  and  planting  flowers  is  still  practised,  it  is 
always  renewed  on  Easter,  Whitsuntide,^  and  other 
festivals,  when  the  season  brings  the  companion  of 
former  festivity  more  vividly  to  mind.  It  is  also  in- 
variably performed  by  the  nearest  relatives  and 
friends;  no  menials  nor  hirelings  are  employed;  and  if 
a  neighbor  yields  assistance,  it  would  be  deemed  an 
insult  to  offer  compensation. 

I  have  dwelt  upon  this  beautiful  rural  custom,  be- 
cause as  it  is  one  of  the  last,  so  is  it  one  of  the  holiest 
offices  of  love.  The  grave  is  the  ordeal  of  true  affec- 
tion. It  is  there  that  the  divine  passion  of  the  soul 
manifests  its  superiority  to  the  instinctive  impulse  of 
mere  animal  attachment.  The  latter  must  be  con- 
tinually refreshed  and  kept  alive  by  the  presence  of  its 
object;  but  the  love  that  is  seated  in  the  soul  can  live 
on  long  remembrance.  The  mere  inclinations  of  sense 
languish  and  decline  with  the  charms  which  excited 

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RURAL  FUNERALS  2iv 

them,  and  turn  with  shuddering  disgust  from  the  dis- 
mal precincts  of  the  tomb;  but  it  is  thence  that  truly 
spiritual  aflfection  rises,  purified  from  every  sensual 
desire,  and  returns,  Hke  a  holy  flame,  to  illumine  and 
sanctify  the  heart  of  the  survivor. 

The  sorrow  for  the  dead  is  the  only  sorrow  from, 
which  we  refuse  to  be  divorced.  Every  other  wound 
we  seek  to  heal — every  other  affliction  to  forget;  but 
this  wound  we  consider  it  a  duty  to  keep  open — this 
affliction  we  cherish  and  brood  over  in  solitude. 
Where  is  the  mother  who  would  willingly  forget  the 
infant  that  perished  like  a  blossom  from  her  arms, 
though  every  recollection  is  a  pang?  Where  is  the 
child  that  would  willingly  forget  the  most  tender  of 
parents,  though  to  remember  be  but  to  lament  ?  Who, 
even  in  the  hour  of  agony,  would  forget  the  friend  over 
whom  he  mourns?  Who,  even  when  the  tomb  is 
closing  upon  the  remains  of  her  he  most  loved;  when 
he  feels  his  heart,  as  it  were  crushed  in  the  closing 
of  its  portal;  would  accept  of  consolation  that  must  be 
bought  by  forgetfulness? — No,  the  love  which  survives 
the  tomb  is  one  of  the  noblest  attributes  of  the  soul.  If 
it  has  its  woes,  it  has  likewise  its  delights;  and  when 
the  overwhelming  burst  of  grief  is  calmed  into  the 
gentle  tear  of  recollection;  when  the  sudden  anguish 
and  the  convulsive  agony  over  the  present  ruins  of  all 
that  we  most  loved  is  softened  away  into  pensive  medi- 
tation on  all  that  it  was  in  the  days  of  its  loveliness — 
who  would  root  out  such  a  sorrow  from  the  heart? 
Though  it  may  sometimes  throw  a  passing  cloud  over 

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C20  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

the  bright  hour  of  gayety,  or  spread  a  deeper  sadness 
over  the  hour  of  gloom,  yet  who  would  exchange  it 
even  for  the  song  of  pleastire,  or  the  burst  of  revelry? 
No,  there  is  a  voice  from  the  tomb  sweeter  than  song. 
There  is  a  remembrance  of  the  dead  to  which  we  turn 
even  from  the  charms  of  the  living.  Oh,  the  grave! — 
the  grave! — It  buries  every  error — covers  every  defect 
—extinguishes  every  resentment!  From  its  peaceful 
bosom  spring  none  but  fond  regrets  and  tender  recol- 
lections. Who  can  look  down  upon  the  grave  even  of 
an  enemy,  and  not  feel  a  compunctious  throb  that  he 
shotild  ever  have  warred  with  the  poor  handftil  of 
earth  that  lies  motildering  before  him? 

But  the  grave  of  those  we  loved — ^what  a  place  for 
meditation!  There  it  is  that  we  call  up  in  long  re- 
view the  whole  history  of  virtue  and  gentleness,  and 
the  thousand  endearments  lavished  upon  us  almost  un- 
heeded in  the  daily  intercourse  of  intimacy — ^there  it 
is  that  we  dwell  upon  the  tenderness,  the  solemn,  awful 
tenderness  of  the  parting  scene.  The  bed  of  death, 
with  all  its  stifled  griefs — ^its  noiseless  attendance — ^its 
mute,  watchful  assiduities.  The  last  testimonies  of  ex- 
piring love !  The  feeble,  fluttering,  thrilling — oh !  how 
thrilling! — ^presstire  of  the  hand!  The  faint,  faltering 
accents,  struggling  in  death  to  give  one  more  assurance 
of  affection!  The  last  fond  look  of  the  glazing  eye, 
turned  upon  us  even  from  the  threshold  of  existence! 

Ay,  go  to  the  grave  of  buried  love,  and  meditate ! 
There  settle  the  account  with  thy  conscience  for  every 
past  benefit  unrequited — every  past  endearment  un- 

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RURAL  FUNERALS  221 

regarded,  of  that  departed  being,  who  can  never — 
never — never  return  to  be  soothed  by  thy  contrition! 

If  thou  art  a  child,  and  hast  ever  added  a  sorrow  to 
thesotil,orafurrow  to  the  silvered  brow  of  an  affection- 
ate parent — ^if  thou  art  a  husband,  and  hast  ever 
caused  the  fond  bosom  that  ventured  its  whole  hap- 
piness in  thy  arms  to  doubt  one  moment  of  thy  kind- 
ness or  thy  truth — ^if  thou  art  a  friend,  and  hast  ever 
wronged,  in  thought,  or  word,  or  deed,  the  spirit  that 
generously  confided  in  thee — ^if  thou  art  a  lover,  and 
hast  ever  given  one  unmerited  pang  to  that  true  heart 
which  now  lies  cold  and  still  beneath  thy  feet; — ^then 
be  sure  that  every  unkind  look,  every  ungracious 
word,  every  ungentle  action,  will  come  thronging 
back  upon  thy  memory,  and  knocking  dolefully  at 
thy  sotil — then  be  stire  that  thou  wilt  lie  down  sor- 
rowing and  repentant  on  the  grave,  and  utter  the  un- 
heard groan,  and  pour  the  unavailing  tear ;  more  deep, 
more  bitter,  because  unheard  and  unavailing. 

Then  weave  thy  chaplet  of  flowers,  and  strew  the 
beauties  of  nature  about  the  grave;  console  thy 
broken  spirit,  if  thou  canst,  with  these  tender,  yet 
futile,  tributes  of  regret;  but  take  warning  by  the 
bitterness  of  this  thy  contrite  affliction  over  the  dead, 
and  henceforth  be  more  faithful  and  affectionate  in 
the  discharge  of  thy  duties  to  the  living. 


In  writing  the  preceding  article,  it  was  not  intended 
to  give  a  full  detail  of  the  funeral  customs  of   the 

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<222  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

English  peasantry,  but  merely  to  furnish  a  few  hints 
and  quotations  illustrative  of  particular  rites,  to  be  ap- 
pended, by  way  of  note,  to  another  paper,  which  has 
been  withheld.  The  article  swelled  insensibly  into  its 
present  form,  and  this  is  mentioned  as  an  apology  for 
so  brief  and  casual  a  notice  of  these  usages,  after  they 
have  been  amply  and  learnedly  investigated  in  other 
works. 

I  must  observe,  also,  that  I  am  well  aware  that 
this  custom  of  adorning  graves  with  flowers  prevails 
in  other  countries  besides  England.  Indeed,  in  some 
it  is  much  more  general,  and  is  observed  even  by  the 
rich  and  fashionable;  but  it  is  then  apt  to  lose  its  sim- 
plicity, and  to  degenerate  into  affectation.  Bright,  in 
his  travels  in  Lower  Hungary,  tells  of  montmients  of 
marble,  and  recesses  formed  for  retirement,  with  seats 
placed  among  bowers  of  greenhouse  plants;  and  that 
the  graves  generally  are  covered  with  the  gayest 
flowers  of  the  season.  He  gives  a  casual  picture  of 
filial  piety,  which  I  cannot  but  transcribe;  for  I  trust 
it  is  as  useftil  as  it  is  delightftil,  to  illustrate  the  ami- 
able virtues  of  the  sex.  ''When  I  was  at  Berlin," 
says  he,  "I  followed  the  celebrated  Iffiand  to  the 
grave.  Mingled  with  some  pomp,  you  might  trace 
much  real  feeling.  In  the  midst  of  the  ceremony, 
my  attention  was  attracted  by  a  young  woman, 
who  stood  on  a  mound  of  earth,  newly  covered 
with  turf,  which  she  anxiously  protected  from  the 
feet  of  the  passing  crowd.  It  was  the  tomb  of  her 
parent;  and  the  figure  of  this  affectionate  daughter 

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RURAL  FUNERALS  223 

presented  a  monument  more  striking  than  the  most 
costly  work  of  art. " 

I  will  barely  add  an  instance  of  sepulchral  dec- 
oration that  I  once  met  with  among  the  mountains 
of  Switzerland.  It  was  at  the  village  of  Gersau, 
which  stands  on  the  borders  of  the  Lake  of  Lucerne, 
at  the  foot  of  Mount  Rigi.  It  was  once  the 
capital  of  a  miniattire  republic,  shut  up  between 
the  Alps  and  the  Lake,  and  accessible  on  the 
land  side  only  by  footpaths.  The  whole  force  of 
the  republic  did  not  exceed  six  hundred  fighting 
men;  and  a  few  miles  of  circumference,  scooped 
out  as  it  were  from  the  bosom  of  the  mountains, 
comprised  its  territory.  The  village  of  Gersau 
seemed  separated  from  the  rest  of  the  world,  and 
retained  the  golden  simplicity  of  a  purer  age.  It 
had  a  small  church,  with  a  burying-ground  ad- 
joining. At  the  heads  of  the  graves  were  placed 
crosses  of  wood  or  iron.  On  some  were  aJB5xed 
miniatures,  rudely  executed,  but  evidently  at- 
tempts at  likenesses  of  the  deceased.  On  the 
crosses  were  hung  chaplets  of  flowers,  some  wither- 
ing, others  fresh,  as  if  occasionally  renewed.  I 
paused  with  interest  at  this  scene;  I  felt  that 
I  was  at  the  source  of  poetical  description,  for 
these  were  the  beautiful  but  unaffected  offerings  of 
the  heart  which  poets  are  fain  to  record.  In  a  gayer 
and  more  populous  place,  I  should  have  suspected 
them  to  have  been  suggested  by  factitious  sentiment, 
derived  from  books;  but  the  good  people  of  Gersau 


yGoogk 


C24  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

knew  little  of  books;  there  was  not  a  novel  nor  a  love 
poem  in  the  village;  and  I  question  whether  any  peas- 
ant of  the  place  dreamt,  while  he  was  twining  a  fresh 
chaplet  for  the  grave  of  his  mistress,  that  he  was  ful- 
filling one  of  the  most  fanciful  rites  of  poetical  devo- 
tion, and  that  he  was  practically  a  poet. 


yGoogk 


THE  INN  KITCHEN 

Shall  I  not  take  mine  ease  in  mine  inn? 

Falstafp. 

During  a  journey  that  I  once  made  through  the 
Netherlands,  I  arrived  one  evening  at  the  Pomme  d^Or, 
the  principal  inn  of  a  small  Flemish  village.  It  was 
after  the  hour  of  the  tabic  d'hdte,  so  that  I  was  obliged 
to  make  a  solitary  supper  from  the  relics  of  its  ampler 
bbard.  The  weather  was  chilly;  I  was  seated  alone 
in  one  end  of  a  great  gloomy  dining-room,  ^.nd,  my 
repast  being  over,  I  had  the  prospect  before  me  of  i 
long  dull  evening,  without  any  visible  means  of  en- 
livening it.  I  summoned  mine  host  and  requested 
something  to  read;  he  brought  me  the  whole  literary 
stock  of  his  household,  a  Dutch  family  Bible,  an  al- 
manac in  the  same  language,  and  a  number  of  old 
Paris  newspapers.  As  I  sat  dozing  over  one  of  the 
latter,  reading  old  and  stale  criticisms,  my  ear  was 
now  and  then  struck  with  biursts  of  laughter  which 
seemed  to  proceed  from  the  kitchen.  Every  one  that 
has  travelled  on  the  continent  must  know  how  favorite 
a  resort  the  kitchen  of  a  country  inn  is  to  the  middle 
and  inferior  order  of  travellers;  particularly  in  that 
equivocal  kind  of  weather,  when  a  fire  becomes  agree- 
able toward  evening.    I  threw  aside  the  newspaper, 

'S  225 

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C26  '        THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

and  explored  my  way  to  the  kitchen,  to  take  a  peep  at 
the  group  that  appeared  to  be  so  merry.  It  was  com- 
posed partly  of  travellers  who  had  arrived  some  hours 
before  in  a  diligence,  and  partly  of  the  usual  attendants 
and  hangers-on  of  inns.  They  were  seated  round  a 
great  burnished  stove,  that  might  have  been  mistaken 
for  an  altar,  at  which  they  were  worshipping.  It  was 
covered  with  various  kitchen  vessels  of  resplendent 
brightness;  among  which  steamed  and  hissed  a  huge 
copper  tea-kettle.  A  large  lamp  threw  a  strong  mass 
of  light  upon  the  group,  bringing  out  many  odd  fea- 
tiures  in  strong  relief.  Its  yellow  rays  partially  illum- 
ined the  spacious  kitchen,  dying  duskily  away  into 
remote  comers;  except  where  they  settled  in  mellow 
radiance  on  the  broad  side  of  a  flitch  of  bacon,  or  were 
reflected  back  from  well-scoured  utensils,  that  gleamed 
from  the  midst  of  obscurity.  A  strapping  Flemish 
lass,  with  long  golden  pendants  in  her  ears,  and  a  neck- 
lace with  a  golden  heart  suspended  to  it,  was  the  pre- 
siding priestess  of  the  temple. 

Many  of  the  company  were  furnished  with  pipes, 
and  most  of  them  with  some  kind  of  evening  potation. 
I  found  their  mirth  was  occasioned  by  anecdotes, 
which  a  little  swarthy  Frenchman,  with  a  dry  weazen 
face  and  large  whiskers,  was  giving  of  his  love  adven- 
tures; at  the  end  of  each  of  which  there  was  one  of 
those  bursts  of  honest  unceremonious  laughter,  in 
which  a  man  indulges  in  that  temple  of  true  liberty, 
an  inn. 

As  I  had  no  better  mode  of  getting  through  a  tedious 

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THE  INN  KITCHEN  227 

blustering  evening,  I  took  my  seat  near  the  stove,  and 
listened  to  a  variety  of  traveller's  tales,  some  very  ex- 
travagant, and  most  very  dull.  All  of  them,  however, 
have  faded  from  my  treacherous  memory  except  one, 
which  I  will  endeavor  to  relate.  I  fear,  however,  it 
derived  its  chief  zest  from  the  manner  in  which  it  was 
told,  and  the  peculiar  air  and  appearance  of  the  narra- 
tor. He  was  a  corpulent  old  Swiss,  who  had  the  look 
of  a  veteran  traveller.  He  was  dressed  in  a  tarnished 
green  travelling-jacket,  with  a  broad  belt  round  his 
waist,  and  a  pair  of  overalls,  with  buttons  from  the 
hips  to  the  ankles.  He  was  of  a  full,  rubicund  coun- 
tenance, with  a  double  chin,  aquiline  nose,  and  a  pleas- 
ant, twinkling  eye.  His  hair  was  light,  and  ciurled 
from  tmder  an  old  green  velvet  travelling-cap  stuck 
on  one  side  of  his  head.  He  was  interrupted  more 
than  once  by  the  arrival  of  guests,  or  the  remarks  of 
his  auditors;  and  paused  now  and  then  to  replenish  his 
pipe;  at  which  times  he  had  generally  a  roguish  leer, 
and  a  sly  joke  for  the  buxom  kitchen-maid. 

I  wish  my  readers  could  magine  the  old  fellow  loll- 
ing in  a  huge  arm-chair,  one  arm  akimbo,  the  other 
holding  a  curiously  twisted  tobacco  pipe,  formed  of 
genuine  icume  de  mer, "  decorated  with  silver  chain  and 
silken  tassel — ^his  head  cocked  on  one  side,  and  the 
whimsical  cut  of  the  eye  occasionally,  as  he  related 
the  following  story. 


y  Google 


THE  SPECTRE  BRIDEGROOM 

A  TRAVELLER'S  TALE  ♦ 

He  that  supper  for  is  dight, 

He  lyes  full  cold,  I  trow,  this  night! 

Yestreen  to  chamber  I  him  led, 

.This  night  Gray-Steel  has  made  his  bed. 

Sir  Eger,  Sir  Grahame,  and  Sir  Gray-Steel. 

On  the  summit  of  one  of  the  heights  of  the  Oden- 
wald,  a  wild  and  romantic  tract  of  Upper  Germany, 
that  Hes  not  far  from  the  confluence  of  the  Main  and 
the  Rhine,  there  stood,  many,  many  years  since,  the 
Castle  of  the  Baron  Von  Landshort.  It  is  now  quite 
fallen  to  decay,  and  almost  buried  among  beech  trees 
and  dark  firs;  above  which,  however,  its  old  watch- 
tower  may  still  be  seen,  struggling,  like  the  former  pos- 
sessor I  have  mentioned,  to  carry  a  high  head,  and 
look  down  upon  the  neighboring  country. 

The  baron  was  a  dry  branch  of  the  great  family  of 
Katzenellenbogen,t  and  inherited  the  relics  of  the 

*  The  erudite  reader,  well  versed  in  good-for-nothing  lore,  will 
perceive  that  the  above  Tale  must  have  been  suggested  to  the  old 
Swiss  by  a  little  French  anecdote,  a  circumstance  said  to  have 
taken  place  at  Paris. 

t  /.  «.,  Cat*s-Elbow.  The  name  of  a  family  of  those  parts 
very  powerful  in  formei  times.  The  appellation,  we  are  told, 
was  given  in  compliment  to  a  peeriess  dame  of  the  family,  cele- 
brated for  her  fine  arm. 

2?8 


yGoogk 


THE  SPECTRE  BRIDEGROOM  229 

property,  and  all  the  pride  of  his  ancestors.  Though 
the  warlike  disposition  of  his  predecessors  had  much 
impaired  the  family  possessions,  yet  the  baron  still 
endeavored  to  keep  up  some  show  of  former  state. 
The  times  were  peaceable,  and  the  German  nobles,  in 
general,  had  abandoned  their  inconvenient  old  castles, 
perched  like  eagles'  nests  among  the  mountains,  and 
had  built  more  convenient  residences  in  the  valleys; 
still  the  baron  remained  proudly  drawn  up  ia  his  little 
fortress,  cherishing,  with  hereditary  inveteracy,  all  the 
old  family  feuds;  so  that  he  was  on  ill  terms  with  some 
of  his  nearest  neighbors,  on  account  of  disputes  that 
had  happened  between  their  great-great-grandfathers. 
Hie  baron  had  but  one  child,  a  daughter;  but  na- 
ttire,  when  she  grants  but  one  child,  always  compen- 
sates by  making  it  a  prodigy;  and  so  it  was  with  the 
daughter  of  the  baron.  All  the  nurses,  gossips,  and 
country  cousins  assured  her  father  that  she  had  not 
her  equal  for  beauty  in  all  Germany;  and  who  should 
know  better  than  they?  She  had,  moreover,  been 
brought  up  with  great  care  under  the  superintendence 
of  two  maiden  aunts,  who  had  spent  some  years  of  their 
early  life  at  one  of  the  little  German  cotirts,  and  were 
skilled  in  all  the  branches  of  knowledge  necessary  to 
the  education  of  a  fine  lady.  Under  their  instructions 
she  became  a  miracle  of  accomplishments.  By  the 
time  she  was  eighteen,  she  could  embroider  to  admira- 
tion, and  had  worked  whole  histories  of  the  saints  in 
tapestry,  with  such  strength  of  expression  in  their 
cx)untenances,  that  they  looked  like  so  many  souls  in 

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230  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

purgatory.  She  cotild  read  without  great  diflSculty, 
and  had  spelled  her  way  through  several  church 
legends,  and  almost  all  the  chivalric  wonders  of  the 
Heldenbuch.'  She  had  even  made  considerable  pro- 
ficiency in  writing;  could  sign  her  own  name  without 
missing  a  letter,  and  so  legibly,  that  her  aunts  could 
read  it  without  spectacles.  She  excelled  in  making 
little  elegant  good-for-nothing  lady-like  nicknacks  of 
all  kinds;  was  versed  in  the  most  abstruse  dancing 
of  the  day;  played  a  number  of  airs  on  the  harp  and 
guitar;  and  knew  all  the  tender  ballads  of  the  Minne- 
lieders^  by  heart. 

Her  aunts,  too,  having  been  great  flirts  and  coquettes 
in  their  yotmger  days,  were  admirably  calculated 
to  be  vigilant  guardians  and  strict  censors  of  the 
conduct  of  their  niece ;  for  there  is  no  duenna  so  rigidly 
prudent,  and  inexorably  decorous,  as  a  superaimuated 
coquette.  She  was  rarely  suffered  out  of  their  sight; 
never  went  beyond  the  domains  of  the  castle,  unless 
well  attended,  or  rather  well  watched;  had  continual 
lecttires  read  to  her  about  strict  decorum  and  im- 
plicit obedience;  and,  as  to  the  men — ^pah! — she  was 
taught  to  hold  them  at  such  a  distance,  and  in  such 
absolute  distrust,  that,  unless  properly  authorized, 
she  would  not  have  cast  a  glance  upon  the  handsomest 
cavalier  in  the  world — ^no,  not  if  he  were  even  dying 
at  her  feet. 

The  good  effects  of  this  system  were  wonderfully  ap- 
parent. The  young  lady  was  a  pattern  of  docility 
and  correctness.     While  others  were  wasting    their 

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THE  SPECTRE  BRIDEGROOM  231 

sweetness'  in  the  glare  of  the  world,  and  liable  to  be 
plucked  and  thrown  aside  by  every  hand,  she  was  coyly 
blooming  into  fresh  and  lovely  womanhood  under  the 
protection  of  those  immaculate  spinsters,  like  a  rose- 
bud blushing  forth  among  guardian  thorns.  Her 
aunts  looked  upon  her  with  pride  and  exultation,  and 
vaunted  that  though  all  the  other  yoimg  ladies  in  the 
world  might  go  astray,  yet,  thank  Heaven,  nothing 
of  the  kind  could  happen  to  the  heiress  of  Katzenel- 
lenbogen. 

But,  however  scantily  the  Baron  Von  Landshort 
might  be  provided  with  children,  his  household  was 
by  no  means  a  small  one;  for  Providence  had  enriched 
him  with  abundance  of  poor  relations.*  They,  one 
and  all,  possessed  the  affectionate  disposition  com- 
mon to  htmible  relatives;  were  wonderfully  attached 
to  the  baron,  and  took  every  possible  occasion  to  come 
in  swarms  and  enliven  the  castle.  All  family  festivals 
were  commemorated  by  these  good  people  at  the 
baron's  expense;  and  when  they  were  filled  with  good 
cheer,  they  would  declare  that  there  was  nothing  on 
earth  so  delightful  as  these  family  meetings,  these  jubi- 
lees of  the  heart. 

'  The  baron,  though  a  small  man,  had  a  large  soul, 
and  it  swelled  with  satisfaction  at  the  consciousness 
of  being  the  greatest  man  in  the  little  world  about  him. 
He  loved  to  tell  long  stories  about  the  dark  old  warriors 
whose  portraits  looked  grimly  down  from  the  walls 
around,  and  he  found  no  listeners  equal  to  those  that 
fed  at  his  expense.    He  was  much  given  to  the  mar- 

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«2  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

vellous,  and  a  firm  believer  in  all  those  supernatural 
tales  with  which  every  mountain  and  valley  in  Ger- 
many abounds.  The  faith  of  his  guests  exceeded  even 
his  own:  they  listened  to  every  tale  of  wonder  with 
open  eyes  and  mouth,  and  never  failed  to  be  aston- 
ished, even  though  repeated  for  the  hundredth  time. 
Thus  lived  the  Baron  Von  Landshort,  the  oracle  of  his 
table,  the  absolute  monarch  of  his  little  territory,  and 
happy,  above  all  things,  in  the  persuasion  that  he  was 
the  wisest  man  of  the  age. 

At  the  time  of  which  my  story  treats,  there  was  a 
great  family  gathering  at  the  castle,  on  an  affair  of 
the  utmost  importance:  it  was  to  receive  the  destined 
bridegroom  of  the  baron's  daughter.  A  negotiation 
had  been  carried  on  between  the  father  and  an  old 
nobleman  of  Bavaria,  to  unite  the  dignitj''  of  their 
houses  by  the  marriage  of  their  children.  The  prelimi- 
naries had  been  conducted  with  proper  punctilio.  The 
yotmg  people  were  betrothed  without  seeing  each  other, 
and  vhe  time  was  appointed  for  the  marriage  ceremony. 
The  young  Count  Von  Altenburg  had  been  recalled 
from  the  army  for  the  purpose,  and  was  actually  on 
his  way  to  the  baron's  to  receive  his  bride.  Missives 
had  even  been  received  from  him,  from  Wurtzburg, 
where  he  was  accidentally  detained,  mentioning  the 
day  and  hotu*  when  he  might  be  expected  to  arrive. 

The  castle  was  in  a  ttunult  of  preparation  to  give 
him  a  suitable  welcome.  The  fair  bride  had  been 
decked  out  with  uncommon  care.  The  two  aunts 
liad  superintended  her  toilet,  and  quarrelled  the  whole 

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THE  SPECTRE  BRIDEGROOM  233 

morning:  about  every  article  of  her  dress.  The  young 
lady  had  taken  advantage  of  their  contest  to  follow 
the  bent  of  her  own  taste ;  and  fortunately  it  was  a  good 
one.  She  looked  as  lovely  as  youthful  bridegroom 
could  desire;  and  the  flutter  of  expectation  heightened 
the  lustre  of  her  charms. 

The  suffusions  that  mantled  her  face  and  neck,  the 
gentle  heaving  of  the  bosom,  the  eye  now  and  then 
lost  in  reverie,  all  betrayed  the  soft  tumult  that  was 
going  on  in  her  little  heart.  The  aunts  were  continu- 
ally hovering  arotmd  her;  for  maiden  aunts  are  apt  to 
take  great  interest  in  affairs  of  this  nature.  They 
were  giving  her  a  world  of  staid  cotmsel  how  to  deport 
herself,  what  to  say,  and  in  what  manner  to  receive 
the  expected  lover. 

The  baron  was  no  less  busied  in  preparations.  He 
had,  in  truth,  nothing  exactly  to  do;  but  he  was  natur- 
ally a  fuming  bustling  little  man,  and  could  not  re- 
main passive  when  all  the  world  was  in  a  hurry.  He 
worried  from  top  to  bottom  of  the  castle  with  an  air 
of  infinite  anxiety;  he  continually  called  the  servants 
from  their  work  to  exhort  them  to  be  diligent;  and 
buzzed  about  every  hall  and  chamber,  as  idly  restless 
and  importunate  as  a  blue-bottle  fly  on  a  warm  sum- 
mer's day. 

In  the  meantime  the  fatted  calf  had  been  killed ;  the 
forests  had  rung  with  the  clamor  of  the  huntsmen*;  the 
kitchen  was  crowded  with  good  cheer;  the  cellars  had 
yielded  up  whole  oceans  otRhein-wein,  and  Fernewein ;  * 
and  even  the  great  Heidelburg  tun^  had  been  laid 

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•34  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

under  contribution.  Everything  was  ready  to  receive 
the  distinguished  guest  with  Saus  und  Braus^  in  the 
true  spirit  of  German  hospitality — ^but  the  guest  de- 
layed to  make  his  appearance.  Hotu*  rolled  after  hotu*. 
The  sun,  that  had  poured  his  downward  rays  upon  the 
rich  forest  of  the  Odenwald,  now  just  gleamed  along 
the  summits  of  the  mountains.  The  baron  mounted 
the  highest  tower,  and  strained  his  eyes  in  hope  of 
catching  a  distant  sight  of  the  count  and  his  attendants. 
Once  he  thought  he  beheld  them;  the  sound  of  horns 
came  floating  from  the  valley,  prolonged  by  the  moun- 
tain echoes.  A  ntmiber  of  horsemen  were  seen  far 
below,  slowly  advancing  along  the  road;  but  when 
they  had  nearly  reached  the  foot  of  the  mountain,  they 
suddenly  struck  off  in  a  different  direction.  The  last 
ray  of  sunshine  departed — the  bats  began  to  flit  by  in 
tjhe  twilight — the  road  grew  dimmer  and  dimmer  to 
the  view;  and  nothing  appeared  stirring  in  it  but  now 
and  then  a  peasant  lagging  homeward  from  his  labor. 

While  the  old  castle  at  Landshort  was  in  this  state 
of  perplexity,  a  very  interesting  scene  was  transacting 
in  a  different  part  of  the  Odenwald. 

The  young  Count  Von  Altenburg  was  tranquilly 
pursuing  his  route  in  that  sober  jog-trot  way,  in  which 
a  man  travels  toward  matrimony  when  his  friends  have 
taken  all  the  trouble  and  uncertainty  of  courtship  off 
his  hands,  and  a  bride  is  waiting  for  him,  as  certainly 
as  a  dinner  at  the  end  of  his  journey.  He  had  encoun- 
tered at  Wurtzburg,  a  youthful  companion  in  arms, 
with  whom  he  had  seen  some  service  on  the  frontiers: 

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THE  SPECTRE  BRIDEGROOM  235 

Herman  Von  Starkenfaust,  one  of  the  stoutest  hands, 
and  worthiest  hearts  of  German  chivalry,  who  was  now 
returning  from  the  army.  His  father's  castle  was  not 
far  distant  from  the  old  fortress  of  Landshort,  although 
an  hereditary  feud  rendered  the  families  hostile,  and 
strangers  to  each  other. 

In  the  warm-hearted  moment  of  recognition,  the 
young  friends  related  all  their  past  adventures  and  for- 
tunes, and  the  count  gave  the  whole  history  of  his 
intended  nuptials  with  a  young  lady  whom  he  had 
never  seen,  but  of  whose  charms  he  had  received  the 
most  enrapturing  descriptions. 

As  the  route  of  the  friends  lay  in  the  same  direction, 
they  agreed  to  perform  the  rest  of  their  journey  to- 
gether; and,  that  they  might  do  it  the  more  leisurely, 
set  off  from  Wurtzburg  at  an  early  hour,  the  count 
having  given  directions  for  his  retinue  to  follow  and 
overtake  him. 

They  beguiled  their  wayfaring  with  recollections  of 
their  military  scenes  and  adventures;  but  the  count 
was  apt  to  be  a  little  tedious,  now  and  then,  about 
the  reputed  charms  of  his  bride,  and  the  felicity  that 
awaited  him. 

In  this  way  they  had  entered  among  the  mountains 
of  the  Odenwald,  and  were  traversing  one  of  its  most 
lonely  and  thickly-wooded  passes.  It  is  well  known: 
that  the  forests  of  Germany  have  always  been  as  much 
infested  by  robbers  as  its  castles  by  spectres;  and,  at 
this  time  the  former  were  particularly  numerous,  from 
the  hordes  of  disbanded  soldiers  wandering  about  the 

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236  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

country.  It  will  not  appear  extraordinary,  therefore, 
that  the  cavaliers  were  attacked  by  a  gang  of  these 
stragglers,  in  the  midst  of  the  forest.  They  defended 
themselves  with  bravery,  but  were  nearly  over- 
powered, when  the  count's  retinue  arrived  to  their 
assistance.  At  sight  of  them  the  robbers  fled,  but 
not  imtil  the  count  had  received  a  mortal  wound. 
He  was  slowly  and  carefully  conveyed  back  to  the 
city  of  Wurtzburg,  and  a  friar  summoned  from  a 
neighboring  convent,  who  was  famous  for  his  skill  in 
administering  to  both  soul  and  body;  but  half  of  his 
skill  was  superfluous;  the  moments  of  the  imf ortunate 
count  were  numbered. 

With  his  dying  breath  he  entreated  his  friend 
to  repair  instantly  to  the  castle  of  Landshort, 
and  explain  the  fatal  cause  of  his  not  keeping  his 
appointment  with  his  bride.  Though  not  the  most 
ardent  of  lovers,  he  was  one  of  the  most  punctil- 
ious of  men,  and  appeared  earnestly  solicitous  that 
his  mission  should  be  speedily  and  courteously 
executed.  "Unless  this  is  done,'*  said  he,  "I  shall 
not  sleep  quietly  in  my  grave!"  He  repeated  these 
last  words  with  peculiar  solemnity.  A  request,  at  a 
moment  so  impressive,  admitted  no  hesitation. 
Starkenfaust  endeavored  to  soothe  him  to  calm- 
ness; promised  faithfully  to  execute  his  wish,  and 
gave  him  his  hand  in  solemn  pledge.  The  dying  man 
pressed  it  in  acknowledgment,  but  soon  lapsed  into 
delirium — raved  about  his  bride — ^his  engagements — 
his  plighted  word;  ordered  his  horse,  that  he  might 

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THE  SPECTRE  BRIDEGROOM  237 

ride  to  the  castle  of  Landshort;  and  expired  in  the 
fancied  act  of  vaulting  into  the  saddle. 

Starkenfaust  bestowed  a  sigh  and  a  soldier's  tear 
on  the  untimely  fate  of  his  comrade,  and  then  pon- 
dered on  the  awkward  mission  he  had  undertaken. 
His  heart  was  heavy,  and  his  head  perplexed;  for  he 
was  to  present  himself  an  unbidden  guest  among  hos- 
tile people,  and  to  damp  their  festivity  with  tidings 
fatal  to  their  hopes.  Still  there  were  certain  whisper- 
ings of  curiosity  in  his  bosom  to  see  this  far-famed 
beauty  of  Katzenellenbogen,  so  cautiously  shut  up 
from  the  world;  for  he  was  a  passionate  admirer  of 
the  sex,  and  there  was  a  dash  of  eccentricity  and  en- 
terprise in  his  character  that  made  him  fond  of  all 
singular  adventure. 

Previous  to  his  departtire  he  made  all  due  arrange- 
ments with  the  holy  fraternity  of  the  convent  for  the 
funeral  solemnities  of  his  friend,  who  was  to  be  buried 
in  the  cathedral  of  Wurtzburg  near  some  of  his  illus- 
trious relatives ;  and  the  mourning  retinue  of  the  count 
took  charge  of  his  remains. 

It  is  now  high  time  that  we  should  return  to  the 
ancient  family  of  Katzenellenbogen,  who  were  impa- 
tient for  their  guest,  and  still  more  for  their  dinner;  and 
to  the  worthy  little  baron,  whom  we  left  airing  himself 
on  the  watch-tower. 

Night  closed  in,  but  still  no  guest  arrived.  The 
baron  descended  from  the  tower  in  despair.  The 
banquet,  which  had  been  delayed  from  hour  to  hour, 
could  no  longer  be  postponed.    The  meats  were  al- 

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238  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

ready  over  done;  the  cook  in  an  agony;  and  the  whole 
household  had  the  look  of  a  garrison  that  had  been 
reduced  by  famine.  The  baron  was  obliged  reluctantly 
to  give  orders  for  the  feast  without  the  presence 
of  the  guest.  All  were  seated  at  table,  and  just  on 
the  point  of  commencing,  when  the  sound  of  a  horn 
from  without  the  gate  gave  notice  of  the  approach  of  a 
stranger.  Another  long  blast  fiUed  the  old  cotirts 
of  the  castle  with  its  echoes,  and  was  answered  by  the 
warder  from  the  walls.  The  baron  hastened  to  receive 
his  future  son-in-law. 

The  drawbridge  had  been  let  down,  and  tlie  stranger 
was  before  the  gate.  He  was  a  tall,  gallant  cavaUer 
mounted  on  a  black  steed.  His  countenance  was  pale, 
but  he  had  a  beaming,  romantic  eye,  and  an  air  of 
stately  melancholy.  The  baron  was  a  little  mortified 
that  he  should  have  come  in  this  simple,  solitary  style. 
His  dignity  for  a  moment  was  rufHed,  and  he  felt  dis- 
posed to  consider  it  a  want  of  proper  respect  for  the 
important  occasion,  and  the  important  family  with 
which  he  was  to  be  connected.  He  pacified  himself, 
however,  with  the  conclusion,  that  it  must  have  been 
youthful  impatience  which  had  induced  him  thus  to 
spur  on  sooner  than  his  attendants. 

"I  am  sorry,"  said  the  stranger,  "to  break  in  upon 
you  thus  unseasonably " 

Here  the  baron  interrupted  him  with  a  world  of 
compliments  and  greetings;  for,  to  tell  the  truth,  he 
prided  himself  upon  his  courtesy  and  eloquence.  The 
Stranger  attempted,  once  or  twice,  to  stem  the  torrent 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


THE  SPECTRE  BRIDEGROOM  C39 

of  words,  but  in  vain,  so  he  bowed  his  head  and  suffered 
it  to  flow  on.  By  the  time  the  baron  had  come  to  a 
pause,  they  had  reached  the  inner  court  of  the  castle; 
and  the  stranger  was  again  about  to  speak,  when  he 
was  once  more  interrupted  by  the  appearance  of  the 
female  part  of  the  family,  leading  forth  the  shrinking 
and  blushing  bride.  He  gazed  on  her  for  a  moment 
as  one  entranced;  it  seemed  as  if  his  whole  soul 
beamed  forth  in  the  gaze,  and  rested  upon  that  lovely 
form.  One  of  the  maiden  aunts  whispered  something 
in  her  ear;  she  made  an  effort  to  speak;  her  moist  blue 
eye  was  timidly  raised ;  gave  a  shy  glance  of  inquiry  on 
the  stranger;  and  was  cast  again  to  the  ground.  •  The 
words  died  away;  but  there  was  a  sweet  smile  playing 
about  her  lips,  and  a  soft  dimpling  of  the  cheek  that 
showed  her  glance  had  not  been  unsatisfactory.  It 
was  impossible  for  a  girl  of  the  fond  age  of  eighteen, 
highly  predisposed  for  love  and  matrimony,  not  to  be 
pleased  with  so  gallant  a  cavalier. 

The  late  hour  at  which  the  guest  had  arrived  left 
no  time  for  parley.  The  baron  was  peremptory,  and 
deferred  all  particular  conversation  until  the  morning, 
and  led  the  way  to  the  untasted  banquet. 

It  was  served  up  in  the  great  hall  of  the  castle. 
Around  the  walls  hung  the  hard-favored  portraits  of 
the  heroes  of  the  house  of  Katzenellenbogen,  and  the 
trophies  which  they  had  gained  in  the  field  and  in  the 
chase.  Hacked  corselets,  splintered  jousting  spears, 
and  tattered  banners  were  mingled  wth  the  spoils  of 
sylvan  warfare;  the  jaws  of  the  wolf  and  the  tusks  of 


yGoogk 


t40  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

the  boar  grinned  horribly  among  cross-bows  and 
battle-axes,  and  a  huge  pair  of  antlers  branched  im- 
mediately over  the  head  of  the  youthful  bridegroom. 

The  cavalier  took  but  little  notice  of  the  company  or 
the  entertainment.  He  scarcely  tasted  the  banquet, 
but  seemed  absorbed  in  admiration  of  his  bride.  He 
conversed  in  a  low  tone  that  could  not  be  overheard — 
for  the  language  of  love  is  never  loud ;  but  where  is  the 
female  ear  so  dull  that  it  cannot  catch  the  softest 
whisper  of  the  lover?  There  was  a  mingled  tenderness 
and  gravity  in  his  manner,  that  appeared  to  have  a 
powerful  eflfect  upon  the  yotmg  lady.  Her  color  came 
and  went  as  she  listened  with  deep  attention.  Now 
and  then  she  made  some  blushing  reply,  and  when  his 
eye  was  turned  away,  she  would  steal  a  sidelong  glance 
at  his  romantic  countenance  and  heave  a  gentle  sigh 
of  tender  happiness.  It  was  evident  that  the  yoimg 
couple  were  completely  enamored.  The  aimts,  who 
were  deeply  versed  in  the  mysteries  of  the  heart,  de- 
clared that  they  had  fallen  in  love  with  each  other 
at  first  sight. 

The  feast  went  on  merrily,  or  at  least  noisily,  for 
the  guests  were  all  blessed  with  those  keen  appetites 
that  attend  upon  light  purses  and  mountain  air.  The 
baron  told  his  best  and  longest  stories,  and  never  had  he 
told  them  so  well,  or  with  such  great  eflfect.  If  there 
was  anything  marvellous,his  auditors  were  lost  in  aston- 
ishment; and  if  anything  facetious,  they  were  sure 
to  laugh  exactly  in  the  right  place.  The  baron,  it  ia 
true,  like  most  great  m^n,  was  too  dignified  to  utterany 


yGoogk 


THE  SPECTRE  BRIDEGROOM  241 

joke  but  a  dtill  one;  it  was  always  enforced,  however, 
by  a  bumper  of  excellent  Hockheimer' ;  and  even  a  dull 
joke,  at  one's  own  table,  served  up  with  jolly  old  wine, 
is  irresistible.  Many  good  things  were  said  by  poorer 
and  keener  wits,  that  would  not  bear  repeating,  ex- 
cept on  similar  occasions;  many  sly  speeches  whis- 
pered in  ladies'  ears,  that  almost  convtdsed  them  with 
suppressed  laughter;  and  a  song  or  two  roared  out  h"^- 
a  poor,  but  merry  and  broad-faced  cousin  of  the  baron^ 
that  absolutely  made  the  maiden  aunts  hold  up  their 
fans. 

Amidst  all  this  revelry,  the  stranger  guest  main- 
tained a  most  singular  and  unseasonable  gravity. 
His  countenance  assumed  a  deeper  cast  of  dejection 
as  the  evening  advanced;  and,  strange  as  it  may  appear, 
even  the  baron's  jokes  seemed  only  to  render  him  the 
more  melancholy.  At  times  he  was  lost  in  thought, 
and  at  times  there  was  a  perturbed  and  restless  wan- 
dering of  the  eye  that  bespoke  a  mind  but  ill  at  ease. 
His  conversations  with  the  bride  became  more  and 
more  earnest  and  mysterious.  Lrowering  clouds  be- 
gan to  steal  over  the  fair  serenity  of  "her  brow,  and  tre- 
mors to  nm  through  her  tender  frame. 

All  this  could  not  escape  the  notice  of  the  company. 
Their  gayety  was  chilled  by  the  unaccountable  gloom 
of  the  bridegroom;  their  spirits  were  infected;  whis- 
pers and  glances  were  interchanged,  accompanied  by 
shrugs  and  dubious  shakes  of  the  head.  The  song 
and  the  laugh  grew  less  and  less  frequent;  there  were 
dreary  pauses  in  the  conversation,  which  were  at 

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642  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

length  succeeded  by  wild  tales  and  supemattiral 
legends.  One  dismal  story  produced  another  still 
more  dismal,  and  the  baron  nearly  frightened  some 
of  the  ladies  into  hysterics  with  the  history  of 
the  goblin  horseman  that  carried  away  the  fair 
Leonora';  a  dreadful  story,  which  has  since  been  put 
into  excellent  verse,  and  is  read  and  believed  by  all 
the  world. 

The  bridegroom  listened  to  this  tale  with  profound 
attention.  He  kept  his  eyes  steadily  fixed  on  the 
baron,  and,  as  the  story  drew  to  a  close,  began  gradu- 
ally to  rise  from  his  seat,  growing  taller  and  taller,  until 
in  the  baron's  entranced  eye,  he  seemed  almost  to 
tower  into  a  giant.  The  moment  the  tale  was  fin- 
nished,  he  heaved  a  deep  sigh,  and  took  a  solemn  fare- 
well of  the  company.  They  were  all  amazement. 
The  baron  was  perfectly  thunder-struck. 

"What!  going  to  leave  the  castle  at  midnight?  why, 
everything  was  prepared  for  his  reception;  a  chamber 
was  ready  for  him  if  he  wished  to  retire.  *' 

The  stranger  sljook  his  head  mournfully  and  mys- 
teriously; "I  must  lay  my  head  in  a  diflEerent  cham- 
ber to-night!" 

There  was  something  in  this  reply,  and  the  tone  in 
which  it  was  uttered,  that  made  the  baron's  heart  mis- 
give him;  but  he  rallied  his  forces,  and  repeated  his 
hospitable  entreaties. 

The  stranger  shook  his  head  silently,  but  positively, 
at  every  offer;  and,  waving  his  farewell  to  the  company, 
stalked  slowly  out  of  the  hall.    The  maiden  aunts  were 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


THE  SPECTRE  BRIDEGROOM  243 

absolutely  petrified — the  bride  hung  her  head,  and  a 
tear  stole  to  her  eye. 

The  baron  followed  the  stranger  to  the  great  court 
of  the  castle,  where  the  black  charger  stood  pawing 
the  earth,  and  snorting  with  impatience.  When  they 
had  reached  the  portal,  whose  deep  archway  was  dimly 
Ughted  by  a  cresset,  the  stranger  paused,  and  addressed 
the  baron  in  a  hoUow  tone  of  voice,  which  the  vaulted 
roof  rendered  still  more  sepulchral. 

"Now  that  we  are  alone, "  said  he,  " I  will  impart  to 
you  the  reason  of  my  going.  I  have  a  solemn,  an 
indispensable  engagement " 

"  Why, "  said  the  baron,  **  cannot  you  send  some  one 
in  your  place?" 

"It  admits  of  no  substitute — I  must  attend  it  in 
person — I  must  away  to  Wurtzburg  cathedral " 

"Ay,"  said  the  baron,  plucking  up  spirit,  "but  not 
until  to-morrow — ^to-morrow  you  shall  take  your  bride 
there." 

"No!  no!"  replied  the  stranger,  with  tenfold  solem- 
nity, "my  engagement  is  with  no  bride — the  worms! 
the  worms  expect  me!  I  am  a  dead  man — I  have  been 
slain  by  robbers — ^my  body  lies  at  Wurtzburg — ^at 
midnight  I  am  to  be  buried — the  grave  is  waiting  for 
me — I  must  keep  my  appointment!" 

He  sprang  on  his  black  charger,  dashed  over  the 
drawbridge,  and  the  clattering  of  his  horses*  hoofs 
was  lost  in  the  whistling  of  the  night  blast. 

The  baron  returned  to  the  hall  in  the  utmost  con- 
sternation, and  related  what  had  passed.    Two  ladies 

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244  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

fainted  outright,  others  sickened  at  the  idea  of  having 
banqueted  with  a  spectre.  It  was  the  opinion  of 
some,  that  this  might  be  the  wild  huntsman,  famous 
in  German  legend.  Some  talked  of  mountain  sprites, 
of  wood-demons,  and  of  other  supernatural  beings, 
with  which  the  good  people  of  Germany  have  been  so 
grievously  harassed  since  time  immemorial.  One  of 
the  poor  relations  ventured  to  suggest  that  it  might  be 
some  sportive  evasion  of  the  young  cavalier,  and  that 
the  very  gloominess  of  the  caprice  seemed  to  accord 
with  so  melancholy  a  personage.  This,  however, 
drew  on  him  the  indignation  of  the  whole  company, 
and  especially  of  the  baron,  who  looked  upon  him  as 
little  better  than  an  infidel;  so  that  he  was  fain  to  ab- 
jure his  heresy  as  speedily  as  possible,  and  come  into 
the  faith  of  the  true  believers. 

But  whatever  may  have  been  the  doubts  enter- 
tained, they  were  completely  put  to  an  end  by  the 
arrival,  next  day,  of  regular  missives,  confirming  the 
intelligence  of  the  young  count's  murder,  and  his  in- 
terment in  Wurtzburg  cathedral. 

The  dismay  at  the  castle  may  well  be  imagined. 
The  baron  shut  himself  up  in  his  chamber.  The 
guests,  who  had  come  to  rejoice  with  him,  could  not 
think  of  abandoning  him  in  his  distress.  They  wan- 
dered about  the  courts,  or  collected  in  groups  in  the 
hall,  shaking  their  heads  and  shrugging  their  shoulders, 
at  the  troubles  of  so  good  a  man;  and  sat  longer  than 
ever  at  table,  and  ate  and  drank  more  stoutly  than 
ever,  by  way  of  keeping  up  their  spirits     But  the 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


THE  SPECTRE  BRIDEGROOM  245 

Bituation  of  the  widowed  bride  was  the  most  pitiable. 
To  have  lost  a  husband  before  she  had  even  embraced 
him — ^and  such  a  husband!  if  the  very  spectre  could 
be  so  gracious  and  noble,  what  must  have  been  the 
living  man!    She  filled  the  house  with  lamentations. 

On  the  night  of  the  second  day  of  her  widowhood, 
she  had  retired  to  her  chamber,  accompanied  by  one  of 
her  aimts,  who  insisted  on  sleeping  with  her.  The 
aunt,  who  was  one  of  the  best  tellers  of  ghost  stories 
in  all  Germany,  had  just  been  recounting  one  of  her 
longest,  and  had  fallen  asleep  in  the  very  midst  of  it. 
The  chamber  was  remote,  and  overlooked  a  small 
garden.  The  niece  lay  pensively  gazing  at  the  beams 
of  the  rising  moon,  as  they  trembled  on  the  leaves  of  an 
aspen-tree  before  the  lattice.  The  castle-clock  had 
just  tolled  midnight,  when  a  soft  strain  of  music  stole 
up  from  the  garden.  She  rose  hastily  from  her  bed, 
and  stepped  lightly  to  the  window.  A  tall  figure  stood 
among  the  shadows  of  the  trees.  As  it  raised  its  head, 
a  beam  of  moonlight  fell  upon  the  countenance. 
Heaven  and  earth!  she  beheld  the  Spectre  Bride- 
groom !  A  loud  shriek  at  that  moment  burst  upon  her 
ear,  and  her  aunt,  who  had  been  awakened  by  the 
music,  and  had  followed  her  silently  to  the  window, 
fell  into  her  arms.  When  she  looked  again,  the 
spectre  had  disappeared. 

Of  the  two  females,  the  aunt  now  required  the  most 
soothing,  for  she  was  perfectly  beside  herself  with 
terror.  As  to  the  young  lady,  there  was  something, 
even  in  the  spectre  of  her  lover,  that  seemed  endear- 

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246  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

ing.  There  was  still  the  semblance  of  manly  beauty; 
and  though  the  shadow  of  a  man  is  but  little  calcu- 
lated to  satisfy  the  affections  of  a  love-sick  girl,  yet, 
where  the  substance  is  not  to  be  had,  even  that  is 
consoling.  The  aunt  declared  she  would  never  sleep 
in  that  chamber  again;  the  niece,  for  once,  was  re- 
fractory, and  declared  as  strongly  that  she  wotdd 
sleep  in  no  other  in  the  castle:  the  consequence  was, 
that  she  had  to  sleep  in  it  alone:  but  she  drew  a 
promise  from  her  aunt  not  to  relate  the  story  of  the 
spectre,  lest  she  should  be  denied  the  only  melan- 
choly pleasure  left  her  on  earth — that  of  inhabiting 
the  chamber  over  which  the  guardian  shade  of  her 
lover  kept  its  nightly  vigils. 

How  long  the  good  old  lady  would  have  observed 
this  promise  is  uncertain,  for  she  dearly  loved  to  talk 
of  the  marvellous,  and  there  is  a  trivimph  in  being  the 
first  to  tell  a  frightful  story;  it  is,  however,  still  quoted 
in  the  neighborhood,  as  a  memorable  instance  of  female 
secrecy,  that  she  kept  it  to  herself  for  a  whole  week ; 
when  she  was  suddenly  absolved  from  all  further  re- 
straint, by  intelligence,  brought  to  the  breakfast  table 
one  morning,  that  the  young  lady  was  not  to  be  found. 
Her  room  was  empty — the  bed  had  not  been  slept  in — 
the  window  was  open,  and  the  bird  had  flown! 

The  astonishment  and  concern  with  which  the  in- 
telligence was  received,  can  only  be  imagined  by  those 
who  have  witnessed  the  agitation  which  the  mishaps 
of  a  great  man  cause  among  his  friends.  Even  the 
poor  relations. paused  for  a  moment  from  the  inde- 

Digitized  by  CjOOQ  IC 


THE  SPECTRE  BRIDEGROOM  247 

fatigable  labors  of  the  trencher,  .when  the  aunt,  who 
had  at  first  been  struck  speechless,  wrung  her  hands, 
and  shrieked  out,  ''The  goblin!  the  goblin!  she's 
carried  away  by  the  goblin ! " 

In  a  few  words  she  related  the  fearful  scene  of  the 
garden,  and  concluded  that  the  spectre  must  have  car- 
ried off  his  bride.  Two  of  the  domestics  corroborated 
the  opinion,  for  they  had  heard  the  clattering  of  a 
horse's  hoofs  down  the  mountain  about  midnight, 
and  had  no  doubt  that  it  was  the  spectre  on  his  black 
charger,  bearing  her  away  to  the  tomb.  All  present 
were  struck  with  the  direful  probability;  for  events  of 
the  kind  are  extremely  common  in  Germany,  as  many 
well  authenticated  histories  bear  witness. 

What  a  lamentable  situation  was  that  of  the  poor 
baron!  What  a  heart-rending  dilemma  for  a  fond 
father,  and  a  member  of  the  great  family  of  Katzenel- 
lenbogen!  His  only  daughter  had  either  been  rapt 
away  to  the  grave,  or  he  was  to  have  some  wood- 
demon  for  a  son-in-law,  and,  perchance,  a  troop  of  gob- 
lin grandchildren.  As  usual,  he  was  completely  be- 
wildered and  all  the  castle  in  an  uproar.  The  men  were 
ordered  to  take  horse,  and  scour  every  road  and  path 
and  glen  of  the  Odenwald.  The  baron  himself  had 
just  drawn  on  his  jack-boots,  girded  on  his  sword,  and 
was  about  to  mount  his  steed  to  sally  forth  on  the 
doubtful  quest,  when  he  was  brought  to  a  pause  by  a 
new  apparition.  A  lady  was  seen  approaching  the 
castle,  moimted  on  a  palfrey,  attended  by  a  cavalier  on 
horseback.     She  galloped  up  to  the  gate,  sprang  from 

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248  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

her  horse,  and  falling  at  the  baron's  feet,  embraced 
his  knees.  It  was  his  lost  daughter,  and  her  compan- 
ion— the  Spectre  Bridegroom!  The  baron  was  as- 
tounded. He  looked  at  his  daughter,  then  at  the 
spectre,  and  almost  doubted  the  evidence  of  his  senses. 
The  latter,  too,  was  wonderfully  improved  in  his  ap- 
pearance since  his  visit  to  the  world  of  spirits.  His 
dress  was  splendid,  and  set  off  a  noble  figure  of  manly 
symmetry.  He  was  no  longer  pale  and  melancholy. 
His  fine  countenance  was  flushed  with  the  glow  of 
youth,  and  joy  rioted  in  his  large  dark  eye. 

The  mystery  was  soon  cleared  up.  The  cavalier 
(for  in  truth,  as  you  must  have  known  all  the  while, 
he  was  no  goblin)  annotmced  himself  as  Sir  Her- 
man Von  Starkenfaust.  He  related  his  adventure 
with  the  young  cotmt.  He  told  how  he  had  hastened 
to  the  castle  to  deliver  the  unwelcome  tidings,  but 
that  the  eloquence  of  the  baron  had  interrupted  him 
in  every  attempt  to  tell  his  tale.  How  the  sight  of 
the  bride  had  completely  captivated  him,  and  that 
•to  pass  a  few  hours  near  her,  he  had  tacitly  suffered 
the  mistake  to  continue.  How  he  had  been  sorely 
perplexed  in  what  way  to  make  a  decent  retreat, 
until  the  baron's  goblin  stories  had  suggested  his  ec- 
centric exit.  How,  fearing  the  feudal  hostility  of  the 
family,  he.  had  repeated  his  visits  by  stealth — had 
haunted  the*  garden  beneath  the  young  lady's  win- 
dow— had  wooed — had  won — had  borne  away  in 
triumph — and,  in  a  word,  had  wedded  the  fair. 

Under  any  other  circumstances  the  baron  would 

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THE  SPECTRE  BRIDEGROOM  249 

have  been  inflexible,  for  he  was  tenacious  of  paternal 
authority,  and  devoutly  obstinate  in  all  family  feuds; 
but  he  loved  his  daughter;  he  had  lamented  her  as 
lost;  he  rejoiced  to  find  her  still  alive;  and,  though  her 
husband  was  of  a  hostile  house,  yet,  thank  Heaven, 
he  was  not  a  goblin.  There  was  something,  it  must  be 
acknowledged,  that  did  not  exactly  accord  with  his 
notions  of  strict  veracity,  in  the  joke  the  knight  had 
passed  upon  him  of  his  being  a  dead  man;  but  several 
old  friends  present,  who  had  served  in  the  wars,  as- 
sured him  that  every  stratagem  was  excusable  in  love, 
and  that  the  cavaUer  was  entitled.to  especial  privilege, 
having  lately  served  as  a  trooper. 

Matters,  therefore,  were  happily  arranged.  The 
baron  pardoned  the  young  couple  on  the  spot.  The 
revels  at  the  castle  were  resumed.  The  poor  relations 
overwhelmed  this  new  member  of  the  family  with 
loving  kindness;  he  was  so  gallant,  so  generous — and 
so  rich.  The  aunts,  it  is  true,  were  somewhat  scan- 
dalized that  their  system  of  strict  seclusion  and 
passive  obedience  should  be  so  badly  exemplified,  but 
attributed  it  all  to  their  negligence  in  not  having 
the  windows  grated.  One  of  them  was  particularly 
mortified  at  having  her  marvellous  story  marred,  and 
that  the  only  spectre  she  had  ever  seen  should  turn  out 
a  counterfeit;  but  the  niece  seemed  perfectly  happy  at 
having  found  him  substantial  flesh  and  blood — and  so 
the  story  ends. 


yGoogk 


WESTMINSTER    ABBEY 

When  I  behold,  with  deep  astonishment, 
To  famous  Westminster  how  there  resorte 
Living  in  brasse  or  stoney  monument, 
The  princes  and  the  worthies  of  all  sorte; 
Doe  not  I  see  reformde  nobilitie. 
Without  contempt,  or  pride,  or  ostentation, 
And  looke  upon  offenselesse  majesty, 
Naked  of  pomp  or  earthly  domination? 
And  how  a  play-game  of  a  painted  stone 
Contents  the  quiet  now  and  silent  sprites, 
Whome  all  the  worid  which  late  they  stood  upon 
Could  not  content  or  quench  their  appetites. 
Life  is  a  frost  of  cold  felicitie. 
And  death  the  thaw  of  all  our  vanitie. 

Christolero's  Epigrams,  by  T.  B.  1598. 

On  one  of  those  sober  and  rather  melancholy  days,' 
in  the  latter  part  of  autumn,  when  the  shadows  of 
morning  and  evening  almost  mingle  together,  and 
throw  a  gloom  over  the  decline  of  the  year,  I  passed 
several  hours  in  rambling  about  Westminster  Abbey. 
There  was  something  congenial  to  the  season  in  the 
mournful  magnificence  of  the  old  pile ;  and,  as  I  passed 
its  threshold,  it  seemed  like  stepping  back  into  the 
regions  of  antiquity,  and  losing  myself  among  the 
shades  of  former  ages. 

I  entered  from  the  inner  court*  of  Westminster 
School,  through  a  long,  low,  vaulted  passage,  that  had 

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WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  251 

an  almost  subterranean  look,  being  dimly  lighted  in 
one  part  by  circular  perforations  in  the  massive  walls. 
Through  this  dark  avenue  I  had  a  distant  view  of  the 
cloisters,  with  the  figure  of  an  old  verger,  in  his  black 
gown,  moving  along  their  shadowy  vaults,  and  seeming 
like  a  spectre  from  one  of  the  neighboring  tombs.  The 
approach  to  the  abbey  through  these  gloomy  monastic 
remains  prepares  the  mind  for  its  solemn  contempla- 
tion. The  cloisters  still  retain  something  of  the  quiet 
and  seclusion  of  former  days.  The  gray  walls  are 
discolored  by  damps,  and  crumbling  with  age;  a  coat 
of  hoary  moss  has  gathered  over  the  inscriptions  of  the 
mural  monuments,  and  obscured  the  death's  heads, 
and  other  funereal  emblems.  The  sharp  touches  of 
the  chisel  are  gone  from  the  rich  tracery  of  the  arches; 
the  roses  which  adorned  the  keystones  have  lost  their 
leafy  beauty;  everything  bears  marks  of  the  gradual 
dilapidations  of  time,  which  yet  has  something  touch- 
ing and  pleasing  in  its  very  decay. 

The  sun  was  pouring  down  a  yellow  autumnal  ray 
into  the  square  of  the  cloisters;  beaming  upon  a 
scanty  plot  of  grass  in  the  centre,  and  lighting  up  an 
angle  of  the  vaulted  passage  with  a  kind  of  dusky 
splendor.  From  between  the  arcades,  the  eye 
glanced  up  to  a  bit  of  blue  sky  or  a  passing  cloud;  and 
beheld  the  sun-gilt  pinnacles  of  the  abbey  towering 
into  the  azure  heaven. 

As  I  paced  the  cloisters,  sometimes  contemplating 
this  mingled  picture  of  glory  and  decay,  and  some- 
times endeavoring  to  decipher  the  inscriptions  on  the 

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^52  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

tombstones,  which  formed  the  pavement  beneath  my 
feet,  my  eye  was  attracted  to  three  figures,  rudely 
carved  in  relief,  but  nearly  worn  away  by  the  foot- 
steps of  many  generations.  They  were  the  effigies  of 
three  of  the  early  abbots;  the  epitaphs  were  entirely 
eflEaced;  the  names  alone  remained,  having  no  doubt 
been  renewed  in  later  times.  (Vitalis  Abbas.  1082,  and 
Gislebertus  Crispinus.  Abbas.  11 14,  and  Laurentius. 
Abbas.  1 176.)  I  remained  some  little  while,  musing 
over  these  casual  relics  of  antiquity,  thus  left  like 
wrecks  upon  this  distant  shore  of  time,  telling  no  tale 
but  that  such  beings  had  been,  and  had  perished; 
teaching  no  moral  but  the  futility  of  that  pride  which 
hopes  still  to  exact  homage  in  its  ashes,  and  to  live  in 
an  inscription.  A  little  longer,  and  even  these  faint 
records  will  be  obliterated,  and  the  monument  will 
cease  to  be  a  memorial.  Whilst  I  was  yet  looking 
down  upon  these  grave-stones,  I  was  roused  by  the 
sound  of  the  abbey  clock,  reverberating  from  buttress 
to  buttress,  and  echoing  among  the  cloisters.  It  is 
almost  startling  to  hear  this  warning  of  departed  time 
sounding  among  the  tombs,  and  telling  the  lapse  of  the 
hour,  which,  like  a  billow,  has  rolled  us  onward 
towards  the  grave.  I  pursued  my  walk  to  an  arched 
door  opening  to  the  interior  of  the  abbey.  On  enter- 
ing here,  the  magnitude  of  the  building  breaks  fully 
upon  the  mind,  contrasted  with  the  vaults  of  the 
cloisters.  The  eyes  gaze  with  wonder  at  clustered 
columns  of  gigantic  dimensions,  with  arches  springing 
from  them  to  such  an  amazing  height;  and  man 

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WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  253 

wandering  about  their  bases,  shrunk  into  insignifi- 
cance in  comparison  with  his  own  handiwork.  The 
spaciousness  and  gloom  of  this  vast  edifice  produce  a 
profound  and  mysterious  awe.  We  step  cautiously 
and  softly  about,  as  if  fearful  of  disturbing  the  hal- 
lowed silence  of  the  tomb ;  while  every  footfall  whispers 
along  the  walls,  and  chatters  among  the  sepul- 
chres, making  us  more  sensible  of  the  quiet  we  have 
interrupted. 

It  seems  as  if  the  awful  nature  of  the  place  presses 
down  upon  the  soul,  and  hushes  the  beholder  into 
noiseless  reverence.  We  feel  that  we  are  surrounded 
by  the  congregated  bones  of  the  great  men  of  past 
times,  who  have  filled  history  with  their  deeds,  and  the 
earth  with  their  renown. 

And  yet.it  almost  provokes  a  smile  at  the  vanity  of 
human  ambition,^  to  see  how  they  are  crowded  to- 
gether and  jostled  in  the  dust;  what  parsimony  is 
observed  in  doling  out  a  scanty  nook,  a  gloomy  comer, 
a  little  portion  of  earth,  to  those,  whom,  when  alive, 
kingdoms  could  not  satisfy;  and  how  many  shapes, 
and  forms,  and  artifices,  are  devised  to  catch  the 
casual  notice  of  the  passenger,  and  save  from  forget- 
fulness,  for  a  few  short  years,  a  name  which  once 
aspired  to  occupy  ages  of  the  world's  thought  and 
admiration. 

I  passed  some  time  in  Poets'  Comer,  which  occupies 
an  end  of  one  of  the  transepts  or  cross  aisles  of  the 
abbey.  The  monuments  are  generally  simple;  for 
the  lives  of  literary  men  aflEord  no  striking  themes  for 

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254  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

the  sculptor.  Shakespeare  and  Addison  have  statues 
erected  to  their  memories;  but  the  greater  part  have 
busts,  medallions,  and  sometimes  mere  inscriptions. 
Notwithstanding  the  simplicity  of  these  memorials,  I 
have  always  observed  that  the  visitors  to  the  abbey 
remained  longest  about  them.  A  kinder  and  fonder 
feeling  takes  place  of  that  cold  curiosity  or  vague 
admiration  with  which  they  gaze  on  the  splendid 
monuments  of  the  great  and  the  heroic.  They  linger 
about  these  as  about  the  tombs  of  friends  and  compan- 
ions; for  indeed  there  is  something  of  companionship 
between  the  author  and  the  reader.  Other  men  are 
known  to  posterity  only  through  the  medium  of  his- 
tory, which  is  continually  growing  faint  and  obsctire: 
but  the  intercourse  between  the  author  and  his  fellow- 
men  is  ever  new,  active,  and  immediate.  He  has 
lived  for  them  more  than  for  himself;  he  has  sacrificed 
surrounding  enjoyments,  and  shut  himself  up  from  the 
delights  of  social  life,  that  he  might  the  more  inti- 
mately commtme  with  distant  minds  and  distant  ages. 
Well  may  the  world  cherish  his  renown;  for  it  has  been 
purchased,  not  by  deeds  of  violence  and  blood,  but 
by  the  diligent  dispensation  of  pleasure.  Well  may 
posterity  be  grateful  to  his  memory;  for  he  has  left  it 
an  inheritance,  not  of  empty  names  and  sotmding 
actions,  but  whole  treasures  of  wisdom,  bright  gems  of 
thought,  and  golden  veins  of  language. 

From  Poets'  Comer  I  continued  my  stroll  towards 
that  part  of  the  abbey  which  contains  the  sepulchres 
of  the  kings.    I  wandered  among  what  once  were 

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WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  255 

chapels,  but  which  are  now  occupied  by  the  tombs  and 
monuments  of  the  great.  At  every  turn  I  met  with 
some  illustrious  name;  or  the  cognizance  of  some 
powerful  house  renowned  in  history.  As  the  eye 
darts  into  these  dusky  chambers  of  death,  it  catches 
glimpses  of  quaint  efiSgies;  some  kneeling  in  niches, 
as  if  in  devotion;  others  stretched  upon  the  tombs, 
with  hands  piously  pressed  together;  warriors  in  ar- 
mor, as  if  reposing  after  battle;  prelates  with  cro- 
siers and  mitres;  and  nobles  in  robes  and  coronets, 
lying  as  it  were  in  state.  In  glancing  over  this  scene, 
so  strangely  populous,  yet  where  every  form  is  so  still 
and  silent,  it  seems  almost  as  if  we  were  treading  a 
mansion  of  that  fabled  city,  where  every  being  had 
been  suddenly  transmuted  into  stone. 

I  paused  to  contemplate  a  tomb  on  which  lay  the 
effigy  of  a  knight  in  complete  armor.  A  large  buckler 
Was  on  one  arm;  the  hands  were  pressed  together  in 
supplication  upon  the  breast;  the  face  was  almost 
covered  by  the  morion;  the  legs  were  crossed,  in  token 
of  the  warrior's  having  been  engaged  in  the  holy  war. 
It  was  the  tomb  of  a  crusader;  of  one  of  those  military 
enthusiasts,  who  so  strangely  mingled  religion  and 
romance,  and  whose  exploits  form  the  connecting  link 
between  fact  and  fiction;  between  the  history  and  the 
fairy  tale.  There  is  something  extremely  picturesque 
in  the  tombs  of  these  adventurers,  decorated  as  they 
are  with  rude  armorial  bearings  and  Gothic  sctdpture. 
They  comport  with  the  antiquated  chapels  in  which 
they  are  generally  found;  and  in  considering  them,  tbe 

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256  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

imagination  is  apt  to  kindle  with  the  legendary 
associations,  the  romantic  fiction,  the  chivalrous  pomp 
and  pageantry,  which  poetry  has  spread  over  the  wars 
for  the  sepulchre  of  Christ.  They  are  the  relics  of 
times  utterly  gone  by;  of  beings  passed  from  recollec- 
tion; of  customs  and  manners  with  which  ours  have  no 
affinity.  They  are  like  objects  from  some  strange  and 
distant  land,  of  which  we  have  no  certain  knowledge, 
and  about  which  all  our  conceptions  are  vague  and 
visionary.  There  is  something  extremely  solemn  and 
awful  in  those  effigies  on  Gothic  tombs,  extended  as  if 
in  the  sleep  of  death,  or  in  the  supplication  of  the  d3dng 
hour.  They  have  an  effect  infinitely  more  impressive 
on  my  feelings  than  the  fanciful  attitudes,  the  over- 
wrought conceits,  and  allegorical  groups,  which 
abound  on  modern  montunents.  I  have  been  struck, 
also,  with  the  superiority  of  many  of  the  old  sepul- 
chral inscriptions.  There  was  a  noble  way,  in  former 
times,  of  sa3dng  things  simply,  and  yet  saying  them 
proudly;  and  I  do  not  know  an  epitaph  that  breathes  a 
loftier  consciousness  of  family  worth  and  honorable 
lineage,  than  one  which  aflSrms,  of  a  noble  house,  that 
"all  the  brothers  were  brave,  and  all  the  sisters 
virtuous.'* 

In  the  opposite  transept  to  Poets'  Comer  stands  a 
monument  which  is  among  the  most  renowned  achieve- 
ments of  modem  art ;  but  which  to  me  appears  horrible 
rather  than  sublime.  It  is  the  tomb  of  Mrs.  Nightin- 
gale, by  Roubillac.  The  bottom  of  the  monument  is 
represented  as  throwing  open  its  marble  doors,  and  a 

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WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  257 

sheeted  skeleton  is  starting  forth.  The  shroud  is 
falling  from  its  fleshless  frame  as  it  launches  its  dart 
at  its  victim.  She  is  sinking  into  her  affrighted  hus- 
band's arms,  who  strives,  with  vain  and  frantic  effort, 
to  avert  the  blow.  The  whole  is  executed  with  terrible 
truth  and  spirit ;  we  almost  fancy  we  hear  the  gibbering 
yell  of  triumph  bursting  from  the  distended  jaws  of  the 
spectre. — But  why  should  we  thus  seek  to  clothe 
death  with  unnecessary  terrors,  and  to  spread  horrors 
round  the  tomb  of  those  we  love?  The  grave  should 
be  surrounded  by  everything  that  might  inspire 
tenderness  and  veneration  for  the  dead;  or  that  might 
win  the  living  to  virtue.  It  is  the  place,  not  of  disgust 
and  dismay,  but  of  sorrow  and  meditation. 

While  wandering  about  these  gloomy  vaults  and 
silent  aisles,  studying  the  records  of  the  dead,  the 
sound  of  busy  existence  from  without  occasionally 
reaches  the  ear; — ^the  rumbling  of  the  passing  eqtii- 
page;  the  murmur  of  the  multitude;  or  perhaps  the 
Kght  laugh  of  pleasure.  The  contrast  is  striking  with 
the  deathlike  repose  around:  and  it  has  a  strange  ejBfect 
upon  the  feelings,  thus  to  hear  the  surges  of  active  life 
hunying  along,  and  beating  against  the  very  walls  of 
the  sepulchre. 

I  continued  in  this  way  to  move  from  tomb  to  tomb, 
and  from  chapel  to  chapel.  The  day  was  gradually 
wearing  away;  the  distant  tread  of  loiterers  about  thtf 
abbey  grew  less  and  less  frequent;  the  sweet-tongued 
bell  was  stunmoning  to  evening  prayers;  and  I  saw  at 
a  distance  the  choristers,  in  their  white    surplices, 

17 

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258  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

crossing  the  aisle  and  entering  the  choir.  I  stood 
before  the  entrance  to  Henry  the  Seventh*?  chapel. 
A  flight  of  steps  lead  up  to  it,  through  a  deep  and 
gloomy,  but  magnificent,  arch.  Great  gates  of  brass, 
richly  and  delicately  wrought,  turn  heavily  upon  their 
hinges,  as  if  proudly  reluctant  to  admit  the  feet  of 
common  mortals  into  this  most  gorgeous  of  sepulchres. 

On  entering,  the  eye  is  astonished  by  the  pomp  of 
architecture,  and  the  elaborate  beauty  of  sculptured 
detail.  The  very  walls  are  wrought  into  tmiversal 
ornament,  incrusted  with  tracery,  and  scooped  into 
niches,  crowded  with  the  statues  of  saints  and  mar- 
tyrs. Stone  seems,  by  the  cunning  labor  of  the  chisel, 
to  have  been  robbed  of  its  weight  and  density,  sus- 
pended aloft,  as  if  by  magic,  and  the  fretted  roof 
achieved  with  the  wonderful  minuteness  and  airy 
security  of  a  cobweb. 

Along  the  sides  of  the  chapel  are  the  lofty  stalls  of 
the  Knights  of  the  Bath,  ^  richly  carved  of  oak,  though 
with  the  grotesque  decorations  of  Gothic*  architecture. 
On  the  pinnacles  of  the  stalls  are  affixed  the  helmets 
and  crests  of  the  knights,  with  their  scarfs  and  swords; 
and  above  them  are  suspended  their  banners,  em- 
blazoned with  armorial  bearings,  and  contrasting  the 
splendor  of  gold  and  purple  and  crimson,  with  the 
cold  gray  fretwork  of  the  roof.  In  the  midst  of  this 
grand  mausoleum  stands  the  sepulchre  of  its  founder, 
« — ^his  effigy,  with  that  of  his  queen,  extended  on  a 
sumptuous  tomb,  and  the  whole  surrounded  by  a 
superbly-wrought  brazen  railing. 

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WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  259 

There  is  a  sad  dreariness  in  this  magnificence;  thi§i 
strange  mixture  of  tombs  and  trophies;  these  emblems 
of  living  and  aspiring,  ambition,  close  bqside  mementos 
which  show  the  dust  and  oblivion  in  which  all  must  * 
sooner  or  later  terminate.  Nothing  impresses  th^ 
mind  with  a  deeper  feeling  of  loneliness,  than  to  tread 
the  silent  and  deserted  scene  of  former  throng  and 
pageant.  On  looking  rotmd  on  the  vacant  stalls  of 
the  knights  and  their  esquires,  and,  on  the  rows  of 
dusty  but  gorgeous  banners  that  were  once  borne 
before  them,  my  imagination  conjured  up  the  scene 
when  this  hall  was  bright  with  the  valor  and  beauty 
of  the  land;  glittering  with  the  splendor  of  jewelled 
rank  and  military  array;  alive  with  the  tread  of  many 
feet  and  the  hum  of  an  admiring  multitude.  All  had 
passed  away;  the  silence  of  death  had  settled  again 
upon  the  place,  interrupted  only  by  the  casual  chirp- 
ing of  birds,  which  had  found  their  way  into  the  chapel, 
and  built  their  nests  among  its  friezes  and  pendants — 
sure  signs  of  solitariness  and  desertion. 

When  I  read  the  names  inscribed  on  the  banners, 
they  were  those  of  men  scattered  far  and  wide  about 
the  world,  some  tossing  upon  distant  seas;  some  under 
arms  in  distant  lands;  some  mingling  in  the  busy 
intrigues  of  courts  and  cabinets;  all  seeking  to  deserve 
one  more  distinction  in  this  mansion  of  shadowy 
honors:  the  melancholy  reward  of  a  monument. 

Two  small  aisles  on  each  side  of  this  chapel  present 
a  touching  instance  of  the  equality  of  the  grave; 
which  brings  down  the  oppressor  to  a  level  with  the^ 

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•60  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

oppressed,'  and  mingles  the  dust  of  the  bitterest  ene- 
mies together.  In  one  is  the  sepulchre  of  the  haughty 
Elizabeth;  in  the  other  is  that  of  her  victim,the  lovely 
and  tmfortunate  Mary.^  Not  an  hour  in  the  day  but 
some  ejaculation  of  pity  is  uttered  over  the  fate  of  the 
latter,  mingled  with  indignation  atheroppressor.  The 
walls  of  Elizabeth's  sepulchre  continually  echo  with 
the  sighs  of  sympathy  heaved  at  the  grave  of  her  rival. 

A  peculiar  melancholy  reigns  over  the  aisle  where 
Mary  lies  buried.  The  light  struggles  dimly  through 
windows  darkened  by  dust.  The  greater  part  of  the 
place  is  in  deep  shadow,  and  the  walls  are  stained  and 
tinted  by  time  and  weather.  A  marble  figure  of  Mary 
is  stretched  upon  the  tomb,  round  which  is  an  iron 
railing,  much  corroded,  bearing  her  national  emblem — 
the  thistle.  I  was  weary  with  wandering,  and  sat  down 
to  rest  myself  by  the  monument,  revolving  in  my  mind 
the  chequered  and  disastrous  story  of  poor  Mary. 

The  sound  of  casual  footsteps  had  ceased  from  the 
abbey.  I  could  only  hear,  now  and  then,  the  distant 
voice  of  the  priest  repeating  the  evening  service,  and 
the  faint  responses  of  the  choir;  these  paused  for  a 
time,  and  all  was  hushed.  The  stillness,  the  desertion 
and  obscurity  that  were  gradually  prevaiUng  around, 
gave  a  deeper  and  more  solemn  interest  to  the  place: 

For  in  the  silent  grave  no  conversation, 
No  joyful  tread  of  friends,  no  voice  of  lovers, 
No  careful  father's  counsel — nothing  *s  heard, 
For  nothing  is,  but  all  oblivion, 
Dust,  and  an  endless  darkness. 

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WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  261 

Suddenly  the  notes  of  the  deep-laboring  organ  burst 
upon  the  ear,  falling  with  doubled  and  redoubled  in- 
tensity, and  rolling,  as  it  were,  huge  billows  of  sound. 
How  well  do  their  volume  and  grandeur  accord  with 
this  mighty  building!  With  what  pomp  do  they 
swell  through  its  vast  vaults,  and  breathe  their  awful 
harmony  through  these  caves  of  death,  and  make  the 
silent  sepulchre  vocal! — ^And  now  they  rise  in  triumph 
and  acclamation,  heaving  higher  and  higher  their 
accordant  notes,  and  piling  sound  on  sound. — ^And 
now  they  pause,  and  the  soft  voices  of  the  choir  break 
out  into  sweet  gushes  of  melody;  they  soar  aloft,  and 
warble  along  the  roof,  and  seem  to  play  about  these 
lofty  vaults  like  the  pure  airs  of  heaven.  Again  the 
pealing  organ  heaves  its  thrilling  thunders,  compress- 
ing air  into  music,  and  rolling  it  forth  upon  the  soul. 
What  long-drawn  cadences!  What  solenm  sweeping 
concords!  It  grows  more  and  more  dense  and  power- 
ful— ^it  fills  the  vast  pile,  and  seems  to  jar  the  very 
walls — ^the  ear  is  stunned — the  senses  are  overwhelmed. 
And  now  it  is  winding  up  in  full  jubilee — ^it  is  rising 
from  the  earth  to  heaven — ^the  very  soul  seems  rapt 
away  and  floated  upwards  on  this  swelling  tide  of 
harmony! 

I  sat  for  some  time  lost  in  that  kind  of  reverie  which 
a  strain  of  music  is  apt  sometimes  to  inspire:  the 
shadows  of  evening  were  gradually  thickening  round 
me;  the  monimients  began  to  cast  deeper  and  deeper 
gloom;  and  the  distant  clock  again  gave  token  of  the 
slowly  waning  day. 

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S62  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

I  rose  and  prepared  to  leave  the  abbey.  As  I 
descended  the  flight  of  steps  which  lead  into  the  body 
of  the  building,  my  eye  was  caught  by  the  shrine  of 
Edward  the  Confessor,^  and  I  ascended  the  small 
staircase  that  conducts  to  it,  to  take  from  thence  a 
general  survey  of  this  wilderness  of  tombs.  The 
shrine  is  elevated  upon  a  kind  of  platform,  and  close 
around  it  are  the  sepulchres  of  various  kings  and 
queens.  From  this  eminence  the  eye  looks  down 
betv/een  pillars  and  funeral  trophies  to  the  chapels 
and  chambers  below,  crowded  with  tombs;  where 
warriors,  prelates,  courtiers,  and  statesmen  lie  mould- 
ering in  their  ''beds  of  darkness."  Close  by  me 
stood  the  great  chair  of  coronation,  rudely  carved  of 
oak,in  the  barbarous  taste  of  a  remote  and  Gothic  age.  * 
The  scene  seemed  almost  as  if  contrived,  with  theatri- 
cal artifice,  to  produce  an  effect  upon  the  beholder. 
Here  was  a  type  of  the  beginning  and  the  end  of 
human  pomp  and  power;  here  it  was  literally  but  a 
step  from  the  throne  to  the  sepulchre.  Would  not 
one  think  that  these  incongruous  mementos  had  been 
gathered  together  as  a  lesson  to  living  greatness  ?-^to 
show  it,  even  in  the  moment  of  its  proudest  exaltation, 
the  neglect  and  dishonor  to  which  it  must  soon  arrive; 
how  soon  that  crown  which  encircles  its  brow  must 
pass  away,  and  it  must  lie  down  in  the  dust  and  dis- 
graces of  the  tomb,  and  be  trampled  upon  by  the  feet 
of  the  meanest  of  the  multitude.  For,  strange  to  tell, 
even  the  grave  is  here  no  longer  a  sanctuary.  There 
is  a  shocking  levity  in  some  natures,  which  leads  them 

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WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  263 

to  sport  with  awful  and  hallowed  things ;  and  there  are 
base  minds,  which  delight  to  revenge  on  the  illus- 
trious dead  the  abject  homage  and  grovelling  servility 
which  they  pay  to  the  living.  The  coflfin  of  Edward 
the  Confessor  has  been  broken  open,  and  his  remains 
despoiled  of  their  funereal  ornaments;  the  sceptre  has 
been  stolen  from  the  hand  of  the  imperious  Elizabeth, 
and  the  effigy  of  Henry  the  Fifth  lies  headless.  Not  a 
royal  monument  but  bears  some  proof  how  false  and 
fugitive  is  the  homage  of  mankind.  Some  are  plun- 
dered; some  mutilated;  some  covered  with  ribaldry 
and  insult — all  more  or  less  outraged  and  dishonored! 

The  last  beams  of  day  were  now  faintly  streaming 
through  the  painted  windows  in  the  high  vaults  above 
me ;  the  lower  parts  of  the  abbey  were  already  wrapped 
in  the  obscurity  of  twilight.  The  chapels  and  aisles 
grew  darker  and  darker.  The  effigies  of  the  kings 
faded  into  shadows;  the  marble  figures  of  the  monu- 
ments asstmied  strange  shapes  in  the  uncertain  light; 
the  evening  breeze  crept  through  the  aisles  like  the 
cold  breath  of  the  grave;  and  even  the  distant  footfall 
of  a  verger,  traversing  the  Poets'  Comer,  had  some- 
thing strange  and  dreary  in  its  sotmd.  I  slowly 
retraced  my  morning's  walk,  and  as  I  passed  out  at  the 
portal  of  the  cloisters,  the  door,  closing  with  a  jarring 
noise  behind  me,  filled  the  whole  building  with  echoes. 

I  endeavored  to  form  some  arrangement  in  my  mind 
of  the  objects  I  had  been  contemplating,  but  found 
they  were  already  fallen  into  indistinctness  and  con- 
fttsion.    Names,  inscriptions,  trophies,  had  all  become 

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C64  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

I 
confotinded  in  my  recollection,  though  I  had  scarcely 

taken  my  foot  from  off  the  threshold.  What,  thought 
I,  is  this  vast  assemblage  of  sepulchres  but  a  treasury 
of  humiliation;  a  huge  pile  of  reiterated  homilies  on  the 
emptiness  of  renown,  and  the  certainty  of  oblivion! 
It  is,  indeed,  the  empire  of  death;  his  great  shadowy 
palace,  where  he  sits  in  state,  mocking  at  the  relics  of 
htunan  glory,  and  spreading  dust  and  forgetfulness  on 
the  montunents  of  princes.  How  idle  a  boast,  after 
all,  is  the  immortaUty  of  a  name!  Time  is  ever 
silently  turning  over  his  pages;  we  are  too  much 
engrossed  by  the  story  of  the  present,  to  think  of  the 
characters  and  anecdotes  that  gave  interest  to  the 
past;  and  each  age  is  a  volume  thrown  aside  to  be 
speedily  forgotten.  The  idol  of  to-day  pushes  the 
hero  of  yesterday  out  of  our  recollection;  and  will,  in 
turn,  be  supplanted  by  his  successor  of  to-morrow. 
''Our  fathers,"  says  Sir  Thomas  Brown,  ''find  their 
graves  in  our  short  memories,  and  sadly  tell  us  how 
we  may  be  buried  in  our  survivors."  History  fades 
into  fable;  fact  becomes  clouded  with  doubt  and  con- 
troversy; the  inscription  moulders  irotci  the  tablet; 
the  statue  falls  from  the  pedestal.  Columns,  arches, 
pyramids,  what  are  they  but  heaps  of  sand;  and  their 
epitaphs,  but  characters  written  in  the  dust?  What 
is  the  security  of  a  tomb,  or  the  perpetuity  of  an 
embalmment?  The  remains  of  Alexander  the  Great 
have  been  scattered  to  the  wind,  and  his  empty  sar- 
cophagus is  now  the  mere  curiosity  of  a  museum. 
The  Egyptian  mummies,  which  Cambyses  or  time 


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WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  265 

hath  spared,  avarice  now  consumeth;  Mizraim  cures 
wounds,  and  Pharaoh  is  sold  for  balsams.**  * 

What  then  is  to  insure  this  pile  which  now  towers 
above  me  from  sharing  the  fate  of  mightier  mauso- 
leums? The  time  must  come  when  its  gilded  vaults, 
which  now  spring  so  loftily,  shall  lie  in  rubbish  beneath 
the  feet;  when,  instead  of  the  sound  of  melody  and 
praise,  the  wind  shall  whistle  through  the  broken 
arches,  and  the  owl  hoot  from  the  shattered  tower — 
when  the  gairish  sunbeam  shall  break  into  these 
gloomy  mansions  of  death,  and  the  ivy  twine  round 
the  fallen  coltimn;  and  the  foxglove  hang  its  blossoms 
about  the  nameless  tim,  as  if  in  mockery  of  the  dead. 
Thus  man  passes  away;  his  name  perishes  from  record 
and  recollection;  his  history  is  as  a  tale  that  is  told, 
and  his  very  monument  becomes  a  ruin.f 

*  Sir  T.  Brown. 

t  For  notes  on  Westminster  Abbey,  see  Appendix. 


yGoogk 


CHRISTMAS 

But  is  old,  old,  good  old  Christmas  gone?  Nothing  but  the 
hair  of  his  good,  gray,  old  head  and  beard  left?  Well,  I  will 
have  that,  seeing  I  cannot  have  more  of  him. 

Hue  and  Cry  after  Christmas. 

A  man  might  then  behold 

At  Christmas,  in  each  hall 
Good  fires  to  curb  the  cold, 

And  meat  for  great  and  small. 
The  neighbors  were  friendly  bidden, 

And  all  had  welcome  true. 
The  poor  from  the  gates  were  not  chidden 

When  this  old  cap  was  new. 

Old  Song. 

Nothing  in  England  exercises  a  more  delightfiil 
spell  over  my  imagination,  than  the  lingerings  of  the 
holiday  customs  and  rural  games  of  former  times. 
They  recall  the  pictures  my  fancy  used  to  draw  in  the 
May  morning  of  life,  when  as  yet  I  only  knew  the 
world  through  books,  and  believed  it  to  be  all  that 
poets  had  painted  it;  and  they  bring  with  them  the 
flavor  of  those  honest  days  of  yore,  in  which,  perhaps, 
with  equal  fallacy,  I  am  apt  to  think  the  worid  was 
more  homebred,  social,  and  joyous  than  at  present. 
I  regret  to  say  that  they  are  daily  growing  more  and 
more  faint,  being  gradually  worn  away  by  time,  but 

266 


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CHRISTMAS  267 

still  more  obliterated  by  modem  fashion.  They 
resemble  those  picturesque  morsels  of  Gothic  archi- 
tecture, which  we  see  crumbling  in  various  parts  of  the 
country,  partly  dilapidated  by  the  waste  of  ages,  and 
partly  lost  in  the  additions  and  alterations  of  later 
days.  Poetry,  however,  clings  with  cherishing  fond- 
ness about  the  rural  game  and  holiday  revel,  from 
which  it  has  derived  so  many  of  its  themes — ^as  the  ivy 
winds  its  rich  foliage  about  the  Gothic  arch  and 
mouldering  tower,  gratefully  repaying  their  support, 
by  clasping  together  their  tottering  remains,  and,  as  it 
were,  embalming  them  in  verdure. 

Of  all  the  old  festivals,  however,  that  of  Christmas 
awakens  the  strongest  and  most  heartfelt  associations. 
There  is  a  tone  of  solemn  and  sacred  feeling  that  blends 
with  our  conviviality,  and  lifts  the  spirit  to  a  state  of 
hallowed  and  elevated  enjoyment.  The  services  of 
the  church  about  this  season  are  extremely  tender  and 
inspiring.  They  dwell  on  the  beautiful  story  of  the 
origin  of  our  faith,  and  the  pastoral  scenes  that  accom- 
panied its  announcement.  They  gradually  increase 
in  fervor  and  pathos  during  the  season  of  Advent, 
until  they  break  forth  in  ftdl  jubilee  on  the  morning 
that  brought  peace  and  good-will  to  men.  I  do  not 
know  a  grander  effect  of  music  on  the  moral  feel- 
ings, than  to  hear  the  full  choir  and  the  pealing  organ 
performing  a  Christmas  anthem  in  a  cathedral, 
and  filling  every  part  of  the  vast  pile  with  triumphant 
harmony. 

It  is  a  beautiful  arrangement,  also,  derived  from 

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c68  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

days  of  yore,  that  this  festival,  which  commemorates 
the  announcement  of  the  religion  of  peace  and  love, 
has  been  made  the  season  for  gathering  together  of 
family  connections,  and  drawing  closer  again  those 
bands  of  kindred  hearts,  which  the  cares  and  pleasures 
and  sorrows  of  the  world  are  continually  operating  to 
cast  loose;  of  calling  back  the  children  of  a  family, 
who  have  launched  forth  in  life,  and  wandered  widely 
asunder,  once  more  to  assemble  about  the  paternal 
hearth,  that  rallying  place  of  the  affections,  there  to 
grow  yoimg  and  loving  again  among  the  endearing 
mementos  of  childhood. 

There  is  something  in  the  very  season  of  the  year  that 
gives  a  charm  to  the  festivity  of  Christmas.  At  other 
times  we  derive  a  great  portion  of  otir  pleasures  from 
the  mere  beauties  of  nattire.  Otir  feelings  sally  forth 
and  dissipate  themselves  over  the  sunny  landscape, 
.  and  we  **live  abroad  and  everywhere. "  The  song  of 
the  bird,  the  murmur  of  the  stream,  the  breathing 
fragrance  of  spring,  the  soft  voluptuousness  of  summer, 
the  golden  pomp  of  autumn;  earth  with  its  mantle  of 
refreshing  green,  and  heaven  with  its  deep  delicious 
blue  and  its  cloudy  magnificence,  all  fill  us  with  mute 
but  exquisite  delight,  and  we  revel  in  the  luxury  of 
mere  sensation.  But  in  the  depth  of  winter,  when 
nature  lies  despoiled  of  every  charm,  and  wrapped  in 
her  shroud  of  sheeted  snow,  we  turn  for  our  gratifica- 
tions to  moral  sources.  The  dreariness  and  desolation 
of  the  landscape,  the  short  gloomy  days  and  darksome 
nights,  while  they  circumscribe  otir  wanderings,  shut 

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CHRISTMAS  269 

in  our  feelings  also  from  rambling  abroad,  and  make  us 
more  keenly  disposed  for  the  pleasure  of  the  social 
circle.  Otir  thoughts  are  more  concentrated;  our 
friendly  sympathies  more  aroused.  We  feel  more 
sensibly  the  charm  of  each  other's  society,  and  are 
brought  more  closely  together  by  dependence  on  each 
other  for  enjoyment.  Heart  calleth  unto  heart;  and 
we  draw  our  pleasures  from  the  deep  wells  of  loving- 
kindness,  which  lie  in  the  quiet  recesses  of  otir  bosoms; 
and  which,  when  resorted  to,  furnish  forth  the  ptire 
element  of  domestic  felicity. 

The  pitchy  gloom  without  makes  the  heart  dilate  on 
entering  the  room  filled  with  the  glow  and  warmth  of 
the  evening  fire.  The  ruddy  blaze  diffuses  an  arti- 
ficiaji  summer  and  sunshine  through  the  room,  and 
lights  up  each  countenance  in  a  kindlier  welcome. 
Where  does  the  honest  face  of  hospitality  expand  into 
a  broader  and  more  cordial  smile — ^where  is  the  shy 
glance  of  love  more  sweetly  eloquent — ^than  by  the 
winter  fireside?  and  as  the  hollow  blast  of  wintry 
wind  rushes  through  the  hall,  claps  the  distant  door, 
whistles  about  the  casement,  and  nunbles  down  the 
chimney,  what  can  be  more  grateful  than  that  feeling 
of  sober  and  sheltered  security,  with  which  we  look 
round  upon  the  comfortable  chamber  and  the  scene  of 
domestic  hilarity? 

The  English,  from  the  great  prevalence  of  rural 
habit  throughout  every  class  of  society,  have  always 
been  fond  of  those  festivals  and  holidays  which  agree- 
ably interrupt  the  stillness  of  country  life;  and  they 

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e70  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

were,  in  former  days,  partictilarly  observant  of  the 
religious  and  social  rites  of  Christmas.  It  is  inspiring 
to  read  even  the  dry  details  which  some  antiquaries 
have  given  of  the  quaint  humors,  the  burlesque  pag- 
eants, the  complete  abandonment  to  mirth  and  good- 
fellowship,  with  which  this  festival  was  celebrated* 
It  seemed  to  throw  open  every  door,  and  unlock  every 
heart.  It  brought  the  peasant  and  the  peer  together, 
and  blended  all  ranks  in  one  warm  generous  flow  of 
joy  and  kindness.  The  old  halls  of  castles  and  manor- 
houses  resounded  with  the  harp  and  the  Christmas 
carol,  and  their  ample  boards  groaned  under  the 
weight  of  hospitality.  Even  the  poorest  cottage  wel- 
comed the  festive  season  with  green  decorations  of  bay 
and  holly — ^the  cheerful  fire  glanced  its  rays  through 
the  lattice,  inviting  the  passengers  to  raise  the  latch, 
and  join  the  gossip  knot  huddled  round  the  hearth, 
beguiling  the  long  evening  with  legendary  jokes  and 
oft-told  Christmas  tales. 

One  of  the  least  pleasing  effects  of  modem  refine- 
ment is  the  havoc  it  has  made  among  the  hearty  old 
holiday  customs.  It  has  completely  taken  off  the 
sharp  touchings  and  spirited  reliefs  of  these  embellish- 
ments of  life,  and  has  worn  down  society  into  a  more 
smooth  and  polished,  but  certainly  a  less  characteristic 
surface.  Many  of  the  games  and  ceremonials  of 
Christmas  have  entirely  disappeared,  and,  like  the 
sherris  sack  of  old  Falstaff,^  are  become  matters  of 
speculation  and  dispute  among  commentators.  They 
flotirished  in  times  ftill  of  spirit  and  lustihood,  when 

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CHRISTMAS  271 

men  enjoyed  life  roughly,  but  heartily  and  vigorously; 
times  wild  and  picturesque,  which  have  furnished 
poetry  with  its  richest  materials,  and  the  drama  with 
its  most  attractive  variety  of  characters  and  manners. 
The  world  has  become  more  worldly.  There  is  more 
of  dissipation,  and  less  of  enjoyment.  Pleasure  has 
expanded  into  a  broader,  but  a  shallower  stream;  and 
has  forsaken  many  of  those  deep  and  quiet  channels 
where  it  flowed  sweetly  through  the  calm  bosom  of 
domestic  life.  Society  has  acquired  a  more  enlight- 
ened and  elegant  tone;  but  it  has  lost  many  of  its 
strong  local  peculiarities,  its  homebred  feelings,  its 
honest  fireside  delights.  The  traditionary  customs  of 
golden-hearted  antiquity,  its  feudal  hospitalities,  and 
lordly  wassailings,  have  passed  away  with  the  baronial 
castles  and  stately  manor-houses  in  which  they  were 
celebrated.  They  comported  with  the  shadowy  hall, 
the  great  oaken  gallery,  and  the  tapestried  parlor,  but 
are  unfitted  to  the  light  showy  saloons  and  gay 
drawing-rooms  of  the  modem  villa. 

Shorn,  however,  as  it  is,  of  its  ancient  and  festive 
honors,  Christmas  is  still  a  period  of  delightful 
excitement  in  England.  It  is  gratif3dng  to  see  that 
home  feeling,  completely  aroused  which  holds  so  power- 
ful a  place  in  every  English  bosom.  The  preparations 
making  on  every  side  for  the  social  board  that  is 
again  to  unite  friends  and  kindred;  the  presents  of 
good  cheer  passing  and  repassing,  those  tokens  of 
regard,  and  quickeners  of  kind  feelings;  the  evergreens 
distributed  about  houses  and  churches,  emblems  of 

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C72  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

peace  and  gladness;  all  these  have  the  most  pleasing 
effect  in  producing  fond  associations,  and  kindling 
benevolent  sympathies.  Even  the  sound  of  the  Waits, ' 
rude  as  may  be  their  minstrelsy,  breaks  upon  the  mid- 
watches  of  a  winter  night  with  the  effect  of  perfect 
harmony.  As  I  have  been  awakened  by  them  in  that 
still  and  solemn  hotir,  **when  deep  sleep  falleth  upon 
man, "  I  have  listened  with  a  hushed  delight,  and,  con- 
necting them  with  the  sacred  and  joyotis  occasion, 
have  almost  fancied  them  into  another  celestial  choir* 
announcing  peace  and  good-will  to  mankind. 

How  delightfully  the  imagination,  when  wrought 
upon  by  these  moral  influences,  turns  everything  to 
melody  and  beauty!  The  very  crowing  of  the  cock, 
heard  sometimes  in  the  profound  repose  of  the  country, 
"telling  the  night  watches^  to  his  feathery  dames," 
was  thought  by  the  common  people  to  announce  the 
approach  of  this  sacred  festival. 

Some  say  that  ever  'gainst  that  season  comes* 
Wherein  our  Saviour's  birth  is  celebrated, 
This  bird  of  dawning  singeth  all  night  long; 
And  then,  they  say,  no  spirit  dares  stir  abroad; 
The  nights  are  wholesome — ^then  no  planets  strike, 
No  fairy  takes,  no  witch  hath  power  to  charm, 
So  hallow'd  and  so  gracious  19  the  time. 

Amidst  the  general  call  to  happiness,  the  bustle  of  the 
spirits,  and  stir  of  the  aflEections,  which  prevail  at  this 
period,  what  bosom  can  remain  insensible?  It  is, 
indeed,  the  season  of  regenerated  feeling — ^the  season 

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CHRISTMAS  273 

for  kindUng,  not  merely  the  fire  of  hospitality  in  the 
hall,  but  the  genial  flame  of  charity  in  the  heart. 

The  scene  of  early  love  again  rises  green  to  memory 
beyond  the  sterile  waste  of  years;  and  the  idea  of 
home,  fraught  with  the  fragrance  of  home-dwelling 
joys,  reanimates  the  drooping  spirit;  as  the  Arabian 
breeze  will  sometimes  waft  the  freshness  of  the  distant 
fields  to  the  weary  pilgrim  of  the  desert. 

Stranger  and  sojourner^  as  I  am  in  the  land — ^though 
for  me  no  social  hearth  may  blaze,  no  hospitable  roof 
throw  open  its  doors,  nor  the  warm  grasp  of  friendship 
welcome  me  at  the  threshold — ^yet  I  feel  the  influence 
of  the  season  beaming  into  my  soul  from  the  happy 
looks  of  those  around  me.  Stirely  happiness  is 
reflective,  Uke  the  light  of  heaven;  and  every  counte- 
nance, bright  with  smiles,  and  glowing  with  innocent 
enjoyment,  is  a  mirror  transmitting  to  others  the  rays 
of  a  supreme  and  ever-shining  benevolence.  He  who 
can  turn  churlishly  away  from  contemplating  the 
felicity  of  his  fellow-beings,  and  can  sit  down  darkling 
and  repining  in  his  loneliness  when  all  around  is  joyful, 
may  have  his  moments  of  strong  excitement  and 
selfish  gratification,  but  he  wants  the  genial  and  social 
sympathies  which  constitute  the  charm  of  a  merry 
Christmas. 
zS 


yGoogk 


THE  STAGE  COACH 

Omne  bene 

Sine  poena 
Tempus  est  ludendi. 

Venit  hora 

Absque  mor^ 
Libros  deponendi. 

Old  Holiday  School  Song. 

In  the  preceding  paper  I  have  made  some  general 
observations  on  the  Christmas  festivities  of  England, 
and  am  tempted  to  illustrate  them  by  some  anecdotes 
of  a  Christmas  passed  in  the  country;  in  perusing 
which  I  would  most  courteously  invite  my  reader  to 
lay  aside  the  austerity  of  wisdom,  and  to  put  on  that 
genuine  holiday  spirit  which  is  tolerant  of  folly,  and 
anxious  only  for  amusement. 

In  the  course  of  a  December  totir  in  Yorkshire,  I 
rode  for  a  long  distance  in  one  of  the  public  coaches, 
on  the  day  preceding  Christmas.  The  coach  was 
crowded,  both  inside  and  out,  with  passengers,  who,  by 
their  talk,  seemed  principally  bound  to  the  mansions  of 
relations  or  friends,  to  eat  the  Christmas  dinner.  It 
was  loaded  also  with  hampers  of  game,  and  baskets 
and  boxes  of  delicacies;  and  hares  hung  dangling  their 
long  ears  about  the  coachman's  box,  presents  from 
distant  friends  for  the  impending  feast.     I  had  three 

274 

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THE  STAGE  COACH  275 

fine  rosy-cheekod  boys  for  my  fellow-passengers  inside, 
full  of  the  buxom  health  and  manly  spirit  which  I  have 
observed  in  the  children  of  this  country.  They  were 
returning  home  for  the  holidays  in  high  glee,  and 
promising  themselves  a  world  of  enjoyment.  It  was 
delightful  to  hear  the  gigantic  plans  of  the  little  rogues, 
and  the  impracticable  feats  they  were  to  perform 
during  their  six  weeks'  emancipation  from  the  ab- 
horred thraldom  of  book,  birch,  and  pedagogue. 
They  were  full  of  anticipations  of  the  meeting  with 
the  family  and  household,  down  to  the  very  cat  and 
dog;  and  of  the  joy  they  were  to  give  their  little  sis- 
ters by  the  presents  with  which  their  pockets  were 
crammed;  but  the  meeting  to  which  they  seemed  to 
look  forward  with  the  greatest  impatience  was  with 
Bantam,  which  I  found  to  be  a  pony,  and,  according 
to  their  talk,  possessed  of  more  virtues  than  any  steed 
since  the  days  of  Bucephalus.  How  he  could  trot! 
how  he  could  run!  and  then  such  leaps  as  he  would 
take — ^there  was  not  a  hedge  in  the  whole  country 
that  he  could  not  clear. 

They  were  under  the  particular  guardianship  of  the 
coachman,  to  whom,  whenever  an  opporttinity  pre- 
sented, they  addressed  a  host  of  questions,  and  pro- 
nounced him  one  of  the  best  fellows  in  the  world. 
Indeed,  I  could  not  but  notice  the  more  than  ordinary 
air  of  bustle  and  importance  of  the  coachman,  who 
wore  his  hat  a  little  on  one  side,  and  had  a  large  bunch 
of  Christmas  greens  stuck  in  the  buttonhole  of  his 
coat.    He  is  always  a  personage  full  of  mighty  care 

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C76  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

and  business,  but  he  is  particularly  so  during  this 
season,  having  so  many  commissions  to  execute  in 
consequence  of  the  great  interchange  of  presents. 
And  here,  perhaps,  it  may  not  be  unacceptable  to  my 
untravelled  readers,  to  have  a  sketch  that  may  serve 
as  a  general  representation  of  this  very  numerous  and 
important  class  of  functionaries,  who  have  a  dress,  a 
manner,  a  language,  an  air,  peculiar  to  themselves,  and 
prevalent  throughout  the  fraternity;  so  that,  wherever 
an  English  stage  coachman  may  be  seen,  he  cannot  be 
mistaken  for  one  of  any  other  craft  or  mystery. 

He  has  commonly  a  broad,  full  face,  curiously 
mottled  with  red,  as  if  the  blood  had  been  forced  by 
hard  feeding  into  every  vessel  of  the  skin ;  he  is  swelled 
into  jolly  dimensions  by  frequent  potations  of  malt 
liquors,  and  his  bulk  is  still  further  increased  by  a 
multiplicity  of  coats,  in  which  he  is  buried  like  a  cauli- 
flower, the  upper  one  reaching  to  his  heels.  He  wears 
a  broad-brimmed,  low-crowned  hat;  a  huge  roll  of 
colored  handkerchief  about  his  neck,  knowingly 
knotted  and  tucked  in  at  the  bosom;  and  has  in  sum- 
mer-time a  large  bouquet  of  flowers  in  his  buttonhole ; 
the  present,  most  probably,  of  some  enamored  country 
lass.  His  waistcoat  is  commonly  of  some  bright  color, 
striped,  and  his  small  clothes  extend  far  below  the 
knees,  to  meet  a  pair  of  jockey  boots  which  reach 
about  half-way  up  his  legs. 

All  this  costume  is  maintained  with  much  precision; 
he  has  a  pride  in  having  his  clothes  of  excellent 
materials;  and,  notwithstanding  the  seeming  grossness 

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THE  STAGE  COACH  277 

of  his  appearance,  there  is  still  discernible  that  neat- 
ness and  propriety  of  person,  which  is  almost  inherent 
in  an  Englishman.  He  enjoys  great  consequence  and 
consideration  along  the  road;  has  frequent  confer- 
ences with  the  village  housewives,  who  look  upon  him 
as  a  man  of  great  trust  and  dependence;  and  he  seems 
to  have  a  good  understanding  with  every  bright-eyed 
country  lass.  The  moment  he  arrives  where  the 
horses  are  to  be  changed  he  throws  down  the  reins 
with  something  of  an  air,  and  abandons  the  cattle  to 
the  care  of  the  hostler;  his  duty  being  merely  to  drive 
from  one  stage  to  another.  When  oflE  the  box,  his 
hands  are  thrust  into  the  pockets  of  his  great  coat,  and 
he  rolls  about  the  inn  yard  with  an  air  of  the  most 
absolute  lordliness.  Here  he  is  generally  surrounded 
by  an  admiring  throng  of  hostlers,  stable-boys,  shoe 
blacks,  and  those  nameless  hangers-on  that  infest 
inns  and  taverns,  and  run  errands,  and  do  all  kind  of 
odd  jobs,  for  the  privilege  of  battening  on  the  drippings 
of  the  kitchen  and  the  leakage  of  the  tap-room.  These 
all  look  up  to  him  as  to  an  oracle;  treasure  up  liis  cant 
phrases;  echo  his  opinions  about  horses  and  other 
topics  of  jockey  lore;  and,  above  all,  endeavor  to 
imitate  his  air  and  carriage.  Every  ragamuffin  that 
has  a  coat  to  his  back  thrusts  his  hands  in  the 
pockets,  rolls  in  his  gait,  talks  slang,  and  is  an  em- 
bryo Coachey. 

Perhaps  it  might  be  owing  to  the  pleasing  serenity 
that  reigned  in  my  own  mind,  that  I  fancied  I  saw 
cheerfulness  in  every  countenance  throughout  the 

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278  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

journey.  A  stage  coach,  however,  carries  animation 
always  with  it,  and  puts  the  world  in  motion  as  it 
whirls  along.  The  horn,  sounded  at  the  entrance  of  a 
village,  produces  a  general  bustle.  Some  hasten  forth . 
to  meet  friends;  some  with  btmdles  and  bandboxes  to 
secure  places,  and  in  the  hurry  of  the  moment  can 
hardly  take  leave  of  the  group  that  accompanies 
them.  In  the  meantime,  the  coachman  has  a  world 
of  small  commissions  to  execute.  Sometimes  he 
delivers  a  hare  or  pheasant;  sometimes  jerks  a  small 
parcel  or  newspaper  to  the  door  of  a  public  house;  and 
sometimes,  with  knowing  leer  and  words  of  sly  import, 
hands  to  some  half -blushing,  half -laughing  housemaid 
an  odd-shaped  billet-doux  from  some  rustic  admirer. 
As  the  coach  rattles  through  the  village,  every  one 
runs  to  the  window,  and  you  have  glances  on  every 
side  of  fresh  country  faces  and  blooming  giggling  girls. 
At  the  comers  are  assembled  juntos  of  village  idlers 
and  wise  men,  who  take  their  stations  there  for  the 
important  purpose  of  seeing  company  pass;  but  the 
sagest  knot  is  generally  at  the  blacksmith's,  to  whom 
the  passing  of  the  coach  is  an  event  fruitful  of  much 
speculation.  The  smith,  with  the  horse's  heel  in  his 
lap,  pauses  as  the  vehicle  whirls  by;  the  cyclops  round 
the  anvil  suspend  their  ringing  hammers,  and  suffer  the 
iron  to  grow  cool;  and  the  sooty  spectre,  in  brown 
paper  cap,  laboring  at  the  bellows,  leans  on  the  handle 
for  a  moment,  and  permits  the  asthmatic  engine  to 
heave  a  long-drawn  sigh,  while  he  glares  through  the 
murky  smoke  and  sulphtireous  gleams  of  the  smithy. 

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THE  STAGE  COACH  279 

Perhaps  the  impending  hoKday  might  have  given  a 
more  than  usual  animation  to  the  country,  for  it 
seemed  to  me  as  if  everybody  was  in  good  looks  and 
good  spirits.  Game,  poultry,  and  other  luxuries  of  the 
table  were  in  brisk  circulation  in  the  villages;  the 
grocers',  butchers',  and  fruiterers'  shops  were  thronged 
with  customers.  The  housewives  were  stirring  briskly 
about,  putting  their  dwellings  in  order;  and  the  glossy 
branches  of  holly,  with  their  bright-red  berries,  began 
to  appear  at  the  windows.  The  scene  brought  to 
mind  an  old  writer's  account  of  Christmas  prepara- 
tions : — "  Now  capons  and  hens,  beside  turkeys,  geese, 
and  ducks,  with  beef  and  mutton — ^must  all  die — ^for  in 
twelve  days  a  multitude  of  people  will  not  be  fed  with 
a  little.  Now  plums  and  spice,  sugar  and  honey, 
square  it  among  ^  pies  and  broth.  Now  or  never  must 
music  be  in  tune,  for  the  youth  must  dance  and  sing  to 
get  them  a  heat,  while  the  aged  sit  by  the  fire.  The 
country  maid  leaves  half  her  market,  and  must  be  sent 
again,  if  she  forgets  a  pack  of  cards  on  Christmas  eve. 
Great  is  the  contention  of  holly  and  ivy,  whether 
master  or  dame  wears  the  breeches.  Dice  and  cards 
benefit  the  butler;  and  if  the  cook  do  not  lack  wit,  he 
will  sweetly  lick  his  fingers. " 

I  was  roused  from  this  fit  of  luxurious  meditation, 
by  a  shout  from  my  little  travelling  companions. 
They  had  been  looking  out  of  the  coach  windows  for 
the  last  few  ;niles,  recognizing  every  tree  and  cottage 
as  they  approached  home,  and  now  there  was  a 
general  burst  of  joy — **  There  's  John !  and  there 's  old 

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28o  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

Carlo!  and  there  's  Bantam!"  cried  the  happy  little 
rogues,  clapping  their  hands. 

At  the  end  of  a  lane  there  was  an  old  soberJooking 
servant  in  livery,  waiting  for  them;  he  was  accompan- 
ied by  a  superannuated  pointer,  and  by  the  redoubt- 
able Bantam,  a  little  old  rat  of  a  pony,  with  a  shaggy 
mane  and  long  rusty  tail,  who  stood  dozing  quietly  by 
the  roadside,  little  dreaming  of  the  bustling  times 
that  awaited  him. 

I  was  pleased  to  see  the  fondness  with  which  the 
little  fellows  leaped  about  the  steady  old  footman,  and 
hugged  the  pointer;  who  wriggled  his  whole  body  for 
joy.  But  Bantam  was  the  great  object  of  interest, 
all  wanted  to  mount  at  once,  and  it  was  with  some 
diflBculty  that  John  arranged  that  they  should  ride  by 
turns,  and  the  eldest  should  ride  first. 

OflE  they  set  at  last;  one  on  the  pony,  with  the  dog 
boimding  and  barking  before  him,  and  the  others 
holding  John's  hands;  both  talking  at  once,  and  over- 
powering him  with  questions  about  home,  and  with 
school  anecdotes.  I  looked  after  them  with  a  feeling 
in  which  I  do  not  know  whether  pleasure  or  melan- 
choly predominated;  for  I  was  reminded  of  those  days 
when,  like  them,  I  had  neither  known  care  nor  sorrow, 
and  a  holiday  was  the  summit  of  earthly  felicity.  We 
stopped  a  few  moments  afterwards  to  water  the 
horses,  and  on  resuming  our  route,  a  turn  of  the  road 
brought  us  in  sight  of  a  neat  country  seat.  I  could 
just  distinguish  the  forms  of  a  lady  and  two  young 
girls  in  the  portico,  and  I  saw  my  little  comrades,  with 

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THE  STAGE  COACH  281 

Bantam,  Carlo,  and  old  John,  trooping  along  the 
carriage  road.  I  leaned  out  of  the  coach  window,  in 
hopes  of  witnessing  the  happy  meeting,  but  a  grove  of 
trees  shut  it  from  my  sight. 

In  the  evening  we  reached  a  village  where  I  had 
determined  to  pass  the  night.  As  we  drove  into  the 
great  gateway  of  the  inn^  I  saw  on  one  side  the  light  of 
a  rousing  kitchen  fire  beaming  through  a  window.  I 
entered,  and  admired,  for  the  htmdredth  time,  that 
picture  of  convenience,  neatness,  and  broad  honest 
enjoyment,  the  kitchen  of  an  English  inn.  It  was  of 
spacious  dimensions,  hung  round  with  copper  and  tin 
vessels  highly  polished,  and  decorated  here  and  there 
with  a  Christmas  green.  Hams,  tongues,  and  flitches 
of  bacon  were  suspended  from  the  ceiling;  a  smoke- 
jack  made  its  ceaseless  clanking  beside  the  fireplace, 
and  a  clock  ticked  in  one  comer.  A  well-scoured  deal 
table  extended  along  one  side  of  the  kitchen,  with  a 
cold  round  of  beef,  and  other  hearty  viands  upon  it, 
over  which  two  foaming  tankards  of  ale  seemed 
motmting  guard.  Travellers  of  inferior  order  were 
preparing  to  attack  this  stout  repast,  while  others  sat 
smoking  and  gossiping  over  their  ale  on  two  high- 
backed  oaken  settles  beside  the  fire.  Trim  house- 
maids were  hurrying  backwards  and  forwards  under 
the  directions  of  a  fresh,  bustling  landlady;  but  still 
seizing  an  occasional  moment  to  exchange  a  flippant 
word,  and  have  a  rallying  laugh,  with  the  group  rotmd 
the  fire.  The  scene  completely  realized  Poor  Robin's 
humble  idea  of  the  comforts  of  midwinter: 

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c82  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

Now  trees  their  leafy  hats  do  bare 
To  reverence  Winter's  silver  hair; 
A  handsome  hostess,  merry  host, 
A  pot  of  ale  now  and  a  toast, 
Tobacco  and  a  good  coal  fire, 
Are  things  this  season  doth  require.* 

I  had  not  been  long  at  the  inn  when  a  post-chaise 
drove  up  to  the  door.  A  young  gentleman  stept  out, 
and  by  the  light  of  the  lamps,  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  a 
countenance  which  I  thought  I  knew.  I  moved  for- 
ward to  get  a  nearer  view,  when  his  eye  caught  mine. 
I  was  not  mistaken;  it  was  Frank  Bracebridge,  a 
sprightly  good-humored  young  fellow,  with  whom  I 
had  once  travelled  on  the  continent.  Otu-  meeting 
was  extremely  cordial,  for  the  countenance  of  an  old 
fellow-traveller  always  brings  up  the  recollection  of  a 
thousand  pleasant  scenes,  odd  adventures,  and  excel- 
lent jokes.  To  discuss  all  these  in  a  transient  inter- 
view at  an  inn  was  impossible ;  and  finding  that  I  was 
not  pressed  for  time,  and  was  merely  making  a  tour  of 
observation,  he  insisted  that  I  should  give  him  a  day 
or  two  at  his  father's  cotmtry  seat,  to  which  he  was 
going  to  pass  the  holidays,  and  which  lay  at  a  few 
miles  distance.  "It  is  better  than  eating  a  solitary 
Christmas  dinner  at  an  inn,"  said  he,  '*and  I  can 
assure  you  of  a  hearty  welcome  in  something  of  the  old- 
fashioned  style."  His  reasoning  was  cogent,  and  I 
must  confess  the  preparation  I  had  seen  for  universal 

*  P^or  Rabin*  s  Almanac,  1684. 

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THE  STAGE  COACH  283 

festivity  and  social  enjoyment  had  made  me  feel  a 
little  impatient  of  my  loneliness.  I  closed,  therefore, 
at  once,  with  his  invitation :  the  chaise  drove  up  to  the 
door,  and  in  a  few  moments  I  was  on  my  way  to  the 
family  mansion  of  the  jBracebridges. 


yGoogk 


CHRISTMAS  EVE 

Saint  Francis  and  Saint  Benedight 
Blesse  this  house  from  wicked  wight; 
From  the  night-mare  and  the  goblin, 
That  is  hight  good  fellow  Robin: 
Keep  it  from  all  evil  spirits, 
Fairies,  weezels,  rats,  and  ferrets: 

From  curfew  time 

To  the  next  prime. 

Ca&twright. 

It  was  a  brilliant  moonlight  night,  but  extremelj 
cold;  our  chaise  whirled  rapidly  over  the  frozen 
ground;  the  postboy  smacked  his  whip  incessantly, 
and  a  part  of  the  time  his  horses  were  on  a  gallop. 
''He  knows  where  he  is  going,"  said  my  companion, 
laughing,  "and  is  eager  to  arrive  in  time  for  some  of  the 
merriment  and  good  cheer  of  the  senrants'  hall.  My 
father,  you  must  know,  is  a  bigoted  devotee  of  the  old 
school,  and  prides  himself  upon  keeping  up  something 
of  old  English  hospitality.  He  is  a  tolerable  specimen 
of  what  you  will  rarely  meet  with  nowadays  in  its 
purity,  the  old  English  country  gentleman;  for  our 
men  of  fortune  spend  so  much  of  their  time  in  town, 
and  fashion  is  carried  so  much  into  the  country,  that 
the  strong  rich  peculiarities  of  ancient  rural  life  are 
almost  polished  away.   My  father,  however,  from  early 

284 

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CHRISTMAS  EVE  285 

years,  took  honest  Peacham*  for  his  text-book,  instead 
of  Chesterfield;  he  determined  in  his  own  mind,  that 
there  was  no  condition  more  truly  honorable  and 
enviable  than  that  of  a  country  gentleman  on  his 
paternal  lands,  and  therefore  passes  the  whole  of  his 
time  on  his  estate.  He  is  a  strenuous  advocate  for  the 
revival  of  the  old  rural  games  and  holiday  observances, 
and  is  deeply  read  in  the  writers,  ancient  and  modem, 
who  have  treated  on  the  subject.  Indeed  his  favorite 
range  of  reading  is  among  the  authors  who  flourished 
at  least  two  centuries  since;  who,  he  insists,  wrote  and 
thought  more  like  true  Englishmen  than  any  of  their 
successors.  He  even  regrets  sometimes  that  he  had 
not  been  bom  a  few  centuries  earlier,  when  England 
was  itself,  and  had  its  peculiar  manners  and  customs. 
As  he  lives  at  some  distance  from  the  main  road,  in 
rather  a  lonely  part  of  the  cotmtry,  without  any  rival 
gentry  near  him,  he  has  that  most  enviable  of  all  bless- 
ings to  an  Englishman,  an  opportunity  of  indulging  the 
bent  of  his  own  humor  without  molestation.  Being 
representative  of  the  oldest  family  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, and  a  great  part  of  the  peasantry  being  his  ten- 
ants, he  is  much  looked  up  to,  and,  in  general,  is  known 
simply  by  the  appellation  of '  The  Squire ' ;  a  title  which 
has  been  accorded  to  the  head  of  the  family  since  time 
immemorial.  I  think  it  best  to  give  you  these  hints 
about  my  worthy  old  father,  to  prepare  you  for  any 
eccentricities  that  might  otherwise  appear  absurd." 

*  Pttacham's  Complete  Gentleman,  1622. 

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«86  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

We  had  passed  for  some  time  along  the  wall  of  a 
park,  and  at  length  the  chaise  stopped  at  the  gate.  It 
was  in  a  heavy  magnificent  old  style,  of  iron  bars, 
fancifully  wrought  at  top  into  flourishes  and  flowers. 
The  huge  square  columns  that  supported  the  gate  were 
surmounted  by  the  family  crest.  Close  adjoining  was 
the  porter's  lodge,  sheltered  imder  dark  fir-trees,  and 
ahnost  buried  in  shrubbery. 

The  postboy  rang  a  large  porter's  bell,  which 
resounded  through  the  still  frosty  air,  and  was  an- 
swered by  the  distant  barking  of  dogs,  with  which  the 
mansion-house  seemed  garrisoned.  An  old  woman 
immediately  appeared  at  the  gate.  As  the  moonlight 
fell  strongly  upon  her,  I  had  a  full  view  of  a  little 
primitive  dame,  dressed  very  much  in  the  antique 
taste,  with  a  neat  kerchief  and  stomacher,  and  her 
silver  hair  peeping  from  tmder  a  cap  of  snowy  white- 
ness. She  came  courtesying  forth,  with  many  ex- 
pressions of  simple  joy  at  seeing  her  young  master. 
Her  husband,  it  seemed,  was  up  at  the  house  keeping 
Christmas  eve  in  the  servants'  hall;  they  could  not  do 
without  him,  as  he  was  the  best  hand  at  a  song  and 
story  in  the  household. 

My  friend  proposed  that  we  should  alight  and  walk 
through  the  park  to  the  hall,  which  was  at  no  great 
distance,  while  the  chaise  should  follow  on.  Our  road 
wound  through  a  noble  avenue  of  trees,  among  the 
naked  branches  of  which  the  moon  glittered,  as  she 
rolled  through  the  deep  vault  of  a  cloudless  sky.  The 
Jawn  beyond  was  sheeted  with  a  slight  covering  of 

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CHRISTMAS  EVE  287 

snow,  which  here  and  there  sparkled  as  the  moonbeams 
caught  a  frosty  crystal;  and  at  a  distance  might  be 
seen  a  thin  transparent  vapor,  stealing  up  from  the 
low  grounds  and  threatening  gradually  to  shroud  the 
landscape. 

My  companion  looked  around  him  with  transport : — 
*'How  often,"  said  he,  "have  I  scampered  up  this 
avenue,  on  returning  home  on  school  vacations! 
How  often  have  I  played  under  these  trees  when  a  boy ! 
I  feel  a  degree  of  filial  reverence  for  them,  as  we  look 
up  to  those  who  have  cherished  us  in  childhood.  My 
father  was  always  scrupulous  in  exacting  our  holidays, 
and  having  us  around  him  on  family  festivals.  He 
used  to  direct  and  superintend  our  games  with  the 
strictness  that  some  parents  do  the  studies  of  their 
children.  He  was  very  particular  that  we  should  play 
the  old  English  games  according  to  their  original  form; 
and  consulted  old  books  for  precedent  and  authority 
for  every  *merrie  disport';  yet  I  assure  you  there 
never  was  pedantry  so  delightful.  It  was  the  policy  of 
the  good  old  gentleman  to  make  his  children  feel  that 
home  was  the  happiest  place  in  the  world;  and  I  value 
this  delicious  home-feeling  as  one  of  the  choicest  gifts  a 
parent  could  bestow." 

We  were  interrupted  by  the  clamor  of  a  troop  of  dogs 
of  all  sorts  and  sizes,  ''mongrel,  puppy,  whelp,  and 
hound, and  curs  of  low  degree,"  that,  disturbed  by 
the  ring  of  the  porter's  bell  and  the  rattling  of  the 
chaise,  came  bounding,  open-mouthed,  across  the 
lawn. 

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C88  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

"—The  little  dogs  and  all, « 
Tray,  Blanch,  and  Sweetheart,  see,  they  bark  at  me!" 

cried  Bracebridge,  laughing.  At  the  sotind  of  his 
voice,  the  bark  was  changed  into  a  yelp  of  delight,  and 
in  a  moment  he  was  surrounded  and  abnost  over- 
powered by  the  caresses  of  the  faithful  animals. 

We  had  now  come  in  full  view  of  the  old  family  man- 
sion, partly  thrown  in  deep  shadow,  and  partly  lit  up 
by  the  cold  moonshine.  It  was  an  irregular  building, 
of  some  magnitude,  and  seemed  to  be  of  the  archi- 
tecture of  different  periods.  One  wing  was  evidently 
very  ancient,  with  heavy  stone-shafted  bow  windows 
jutting  out  and  overrun  with  ivy,  from  among  the 
foliage  of  which  the  small  diamond-shaped  panes  of 
glass  glittered  with  the  moonbeams.  The  rest  of  the 
house  was  in  the  French  taste  of  Charles  the  Second's 
time,  having  been  repaired  and  altered,  as  my  friend 
told  me,  by  one  of  his  ancestors,  who  returned  with 
that  monarch  at  the  Restoration.  The  grounds 
about  the  house  were  laid  out  in  the  old  formal 
manner  of  artificial  flower-beds,  clipped  shrubberies, 
raised  terraces,  and  heavy  stone  balustrades,  orna- 
mented with  urns,  a  leaden  statue  or  two,  and  a  jet  of 
water.  The  old  gentleman,  I  was  told,  was  extremely 
careful  to  preserve  this  obsolete  finery  in  all  its  original 
state.  He  admired  this  fashion  in  gardening;  it  had 
an  air  of  magnificence,  was  courtly  and  noble,  and 
befitting  good  old  family  style.  The  boasted  imitation 
of  nattire  in  modem  gardening  had  sprung  up  with 

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CHRISTMAS  EVE  289 

modem  republican  notions,  but  did  not  suit  a,  mon- 
archical government;  it  smacked  of  the  levelling 
system— I  could  not  help  smiling  at  this  introduction 
of  politics  into  gardening,  though  I  expressed  some 
apprehension  that  I  should  find  the  old  gentleman 
rather  intolerant  in  his  creed. — ^Frank  asstu-ed  me, 
however,  that  it  was  almost  the  only  instance  in  which 
he  had  ever  heard  his  father  meddle  with  politics;  and 
he  believed  that  he  had  got  this  notion  from  a  member 
of  parliament  who  once  passed  a  few  weeks  with  him. 
The  squire  was  glad  of  any  argument  to  defend  his 
clipped  yew-trees  and  formal  terraces,  which  had  been 
occasionally  attacked  by  modem  landscape  gardeners. 
As  we  approached  the  house,  we  heard  the  sound  of 
music,  and  now  and  then  a  burst  of  laughter,  from  one 
end  of  the  building.  This,  Bracebridge  said,  must 
proceed  from  the  servants*  hall,  where  a  great  deal  of 
revelry  was  permitted,  and  even  encotiraged  by  the 
squire,  throughout  the  twelve  days  of  Christmas,  pro- 
vided everything  was  done  conformably  to  ancient 
usage.  Here  were  kept  up  the  old  games  of  hoodman 
blind,  shoe  the  wild  mare,  hot  cockles,  steal  the  white 
loaf,  bob  apple,  and  snap  dragon;  the  Yule  clog  and 
Christmas  candle  were  regularly  burnt,  and  the  mistle- 
toe, with  its  white  berries,  hung  up,  to  the  imminent 
peril  of  all  the  pretty  housemaids.* 

♦The  mistletoe  is  still  hung  up  in  farmhouses  and  kitchens  at 
Christmas;  and  the  young  men  have  the  privilege  of  kissing 
the  giris  under  it,  plucking  each  time  a  berry  from  the  bush 
When  the  berries  are  all  plucked,  the  privilege  ceases. 

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fi90  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

So  intent  were  the  servants  upon  their  sports  that 
we  had  to  ring  repeatedly  before  we  coidd  make  otir- 
selves  heard.  On  our  arrival  being  announced,  the 
squire  came  out  to  receive  us,  accompanied  by  his  two 
other  sons;  one  a  young  officer  in  the  army,  home  on 
leave  of  absence;  the  other  an  Oxonian,'  just  from  the 
tmiversity.  The  squire  was  a  fine,  healthy-looking 
old  gentleman,  with  silver  hair  curling  lightly  round  an 
open  florid  countenance;  in  which  the  physiognomist, 
with  the  advantage,  like  myself,  of  a  previous  hint  oi 
two,  might  discover  a  singular  mixture  of  whim  and 
benevolence. 

The  family  meeting  was  warm  and  affectionate:  as 
the  evening  was  far  advanced,  the  squire  would  not 
permit  us  to  change  our  travelling  dresses,  but  ushered 
us  at  once  to  the  company,  which  was  assembled  in  a 
large  old-fashioned  hall.  It  was  composed  of  different 
branches  of  a  numerous  family  connection,  where 
there  were  the  usual  proportion  of  old  uncles  and 
aunts,  comfortable  married  dames,  superannuated 
spinsters,  blooming  country  cousins,  half-fledged 
striplings,  and  bright-eyed  boarding-school  hoydens. 
They  were  variously  occupied:  some  at  a  round  game 
of  cards;  others  conversing  around  the  fireplace;  at  one 
end  of  the  hall  was  a  group  of  the  young  folks,  some 
nearly  grown  up,  others  of  a  more  tender  and  budding 
age,  ftdly  engrossed  by  a  merry  game;  and  a  profusion 
of  wooden  horses,  penny  trumpets,  and  tattered  dolls, 
about  the  floor,  showed  traces  of  a  troop  of  little  fairy 
brings,  who,  having  frolicked  through  a  happy  day, 


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CHRISTMAS  EVE  291 

had  been  carried  off  to  slumber  through  a  peaceful 
night. 

While  the  mutual  greetings  were  going  on  between 
young  Bracebridge  and  his  relatives,  I  had  time  to 
scan  the  apartment.  I  have  called  it  a  hall,  for  so  it 
had  certainly  been  in  old  times,  and  the  squire  had 
evidently  endeavpred  to  restore  it  to  something  of  its 
primitive  state.  Over  the  heavy  projecting  fireplace 
was  suspended  a  picture  of  a  warrior  in  armor,  standing 
by  a  white  horse,  and  on  the  opposite  wall  hung  a 
helmet,  buckler,  and  lance.  At  one  end  an  enormous 
pair  of  antlers  were  inserted  in  the  waU,  the  branches 
serving  as  hooks  on  which  to  suspend  hats,  whips,  and 
sptirs;  and  in  the  comers  of  the  apartment  were 
fowling-pieces,  fishing-rods,  and  other  sporting  imple- 
ments. The  furniture  was  of  the  cumbrous  workman- 
ship of  former  days,  though  some  articles  of  modem 
convenience  had  been  added,  and  the  oaken  floor  had 
been  carpeted;  so  that  the  whole  presented  an  odd 
mixture  of  parlor  and  hall. 

The  grate  had  been  removed  from  the  wide  over- 
whelming fireplace, '  to  make  way  for  a  fire  of  wood,  in 
the  midst  of  which  was  an  enormous  log  glowing  and 
blazing,  and  sending  forth  a  vast  volume  of  light  and 
heat:  this  I  understood  was  the  Yule  clog,  which  the 
squire  was  particular  in  having  brought  in  and  illu- 
mined on  aChristmas  eve,  according  to  ancient  custom.* 

*The  Yule  clog  is  a  great  log  of  wood,  sometimes  the  root  of  a 
tree,  brought  into  the  house  with  great  ceremony,  on  Christmas 
eve,  laid  in  the  fireplace,  and  lighted  with  the  brand  of  last  year's 

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C92  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

It  was  really  delightful  to  see  the  old  squire  seated  in 
his  hereditary  elbow  chair,  by  the  hospitable  fireside  of 
his  ancestors,  and  looking  around  him  like  the  sun  of  a 
system,  beaming  warmth  and  gladness  to  every  heart. 
Even  the  very  dog  that  lay  stretched  at  his  feet,  as  he 
lazily  shifted  his  position  and  yawned,  would  look 
fondly  up  in  his  master's  face,  wag  his  tail  against  the 
floor,  and  stretch  himself  again  to  sleep,  confident  of 
kindness  and  protection.  There  is  an  emanation 
from  the  heartnn  genuine  hospitality  which  cannot  be 
described,  but  is  immediately  felt,  and  puts  the 
stranger  at  once  at  his  ease.     I  had  not  been  seated 

clog.  While  it  lasted,  there  was  great  drinking,  singing,  and  tell- 
ing of  tales.  Sometimes  it  was  accompanied  by  Christmas 
candles;  but  in  the  cottages  the  only  light  was  from  the  ruddy 
blaze  of  the  great  wood  fire.  The  Yule  clog  was  to  bum  all  night; 
if  it  went  out,  it  was  considered  a  sign  of  ill  luck. 
Herrick  mentions  it  in  one  of  his  songs: — 

Come,  bring  with  a  noise, 

My  merrie,  merrie  boyes. 
The  Christmas  log  to  the  firing; 

While  my  good  dame,  she 

Bids  ye  all  be  free. 
And  drink  to  yotir  hearts  desiriag. 

The  Yule  clog  is  still  burnt  in  many  farmhouses  and  kitchens 
in  England,  particularly  in  the  north,  and  there  are  several  super- 
stitions connected  with  it  among  the  peasantry.  If  a  squinting 
person  come  to  the  house  while  it  is  burning,  or  a  person  bare- 
footed, it  is  considered  an  ill  omen.  The  brand  remaining  from 
the  Yule  clog  is  carefully  put  away  to  light  the  next  year's  Christ- 
mas fire. 


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CHRISTMAS  EVE  293 

many  minutes  by  the  comfortable  hearth  of  the  worthy 
old  cavalier,  before  I  found  myself  as  much  at  home  as 
if  I  had  been  one  of  the  family. 

Supper  was  announced  shortly  after  our  arrival.  It 
was  served  up  in  a  spacious  oaken  chamber,  the  panels 
of  which  shone  with  wax,  and  around  which  were 
several  family  portraits  decorated  with  holly  and  ivy. 
Besides  the  accustomed  lights,  two  great  wax  tapers, 
called  Christmas  candles,  wreathed  with  greens,  were 
placed  on  a  highly-polished  beaxif et  among  the  family 
plate.  The  table  was  abundantly  spread  with  sub- 
stantial fare;  but  the  squire  made  his  supper  of  fru- 
menty, a  dish  made  of  wheat  cakes  boiled  in  milk, 
with  rich  spices,  being  a  standing  dish  in  old  times  for 
Christmas  eve. 

I  was  happy  to  find  my  old  friend,  minced  pie,  in  the 
retinue  of  the  feast;  and  finding  him  to  be  perfectly 
orthodox,  and  that  I  need  not  be  ashamed  of  my  pre- 
dilection, I  greeted  him  with  all  the  warmth  wherewith 
we  usually  greet  an  old  and  very  genteel  acquaintance. 

The  mirth  of  the  company  was  greatly  promoted  by 
the  humors  of  an  eccentric  personage  whom  Mr.  Brace- 
bridge  always  addressed  with  the  quaint  appellation  of 
Master  Simon. '  He  was  a  tight  brisk  little  man,  with 
the  air  of  an  arrant  old  bachelor.  His  nose  was 
shaped  like  the  bill  of  a  parrot;  his  face  slightly  pitted 
with  the  small-pox,  with  a  dry  perpetual  bloom  on  it, 
like  a  frost-bitten  leaf  in  autumn.  He  had  an  eye  of 
great  quickness  and  vivacity,  with  a  drollery  and 
lurking  waggery  of  expression  that  was  irresistible. 

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294  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

He  was  evidently  the  wit  of  the  family,  dealing  very 
much  in  sly  jokes  and  innuendoes  with  the  ladies,  and 
making  infinite  merriment  by  harping  upon  old 
themes;  which,  unforttmately,  my  ignorance  of  the 
family  chronicles  did  not  permit  me  to  enjoy.  It 
seemed  to  be  his  great  delight  during  supper  to  keep  a 
young  girl  next  him  in  a  continual  agony  of  stifled 
laughter,  in  spite  of  her  awe  of  the  reproving  looks  of 
her  mother,  who  sat  opposite.  Indeed,  he  was  the 
idol  of  the  younger  part  of  the  company,  who  laughed 
at  everything  he  said  or  did,  and  at  every  turn  of  his 
cotmtenance;  I  could  not  wonder  at  it,  for  he  must 
have  been  a  miracle  of  accomplishments  in  their  eyes. 
He  could  imitate  Pimch  and  Judy;  make  an  old 
woman  of  his  hand,  with  the  assistance  of  a  burnt  cork 
and  pocket-handkerchief;  and  cut  an  orange  into  such 
a  ludicrous  caricature,  that  the  yoimg  folks  were  ready 
to  die  with  laughing. 

I  was  let  briefly  into  his  history  by  Frank  Brace- 
bridge.  He  was  an  old  bachelor,  of  a  small  independ- 
ent income,  which,  by  careful  management,  was 
sufiicient  for  all  his  wants.  He  revolved  through  the 
family  system  like  a  vagrant  comet  in  its  orbit;  some- 
times visiting  one  branch,  and  sometimes  another 
quite  remote;  as  is  often  the  case  with  gentlemen  of 
extensive  coimections  and  small  fortunes  in  England. 
He  had  a  chirping  buoyant  disposition,  always  enjoy- 
ing the  present  moment;  and  his  frequent  change  of 
scene  and  company  prevented  his  acquiring  those 
rusty    imaccommodating    habits    with    which    old 

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CHRISTMAS  EVE  295 

bachelors  are  so  uncharitably  charged.  He  was  a 
complete  family  chronicle,  being  versed  in  the  gene- 
alogy, history,  and  intermarriages  of  the  whole  house 
of  Bracebridge,  which  made  him  a  great  favorite  with 
the  old  folks;  he  was  a  beau  of  all  the  elder  ladies 
and  superannuated  spinsters,  among  whom  he  was 
habitually  considered  rather  a  young  fellow,  and  he 
was  master  of  the  revels  among  the  children;  so  that 
there  was  not  a  more  popular  being  in  the  sphere  in 
which  he  moved  than  Mr.  Simon  Bracebridge.  Of 
late  years,  he  had  resided  almost  entirely  with  the 
squire,  to  whom  he  had  become  a  factotum,  and  whom 
he  particularly  delighted  by  jumping  with  his  humor 
in  respect  to  old  times,  and  by  having  a  scrap  of  an  old 
song  to  suit  every  occasion.  We  had  presently  a 
specimen  of  his  last-mentioned  talent,  for  no  sooner 
was  supper  removed,  and  spiced  wines  and  other 
beverages  peculiar  to  the  season  introduced,  than 
Master  Simon  was  called  on  for  a  good  old  Christmas 
song.  He  bethought  himself  for  a  moment,  and  then, 
with  a  sparkle  of  the  eye,  and  a  voice  that  was  by  no 
means  bad,  excepting  that  it  ran  occasionally  into  a 
falsetto,  like  the  notes  of  a  split  reed,  he  quavered  forth 
a  quaint  old  ditty. 

Now  Christmas  is  come, 

Let  us  beat  up  the  drum, 
And  call  all  our  neighbors  together, 

And  when  they  appear, 

Let  us  make  them  such  cheer, 
As  will  keep  out  the  wind  and  the  weather,  etc 

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296  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

The  supper  had  disposed  every  one  to  gayety,  and 
an  old  harper  was  summoned  from  the  servants'  hall, 
where  he  had  been  strumming  all  the  evening,  and  to 
all  appearance  comforting  himself  with  some  of  the 
squire's  home-brewed.  He  was  a  kind  of  hanger-on, 
I  was  told,  of  the  establishment,  and,  though  osten- 
sibly a  resident  of  the  village,  was  of tener*  to  be  found 
in  the  squire's  kitchen  than  his  own  home,  the  old 
gentleman  being  fond  of  the  sound  of  "harp  in  hall." 

The  dance,  like  most  dances  after  supper,  was  a 
merry  cme;  some  of  the  older  folks  joined  in  it,  and  the 
squire  himself  figured  down  several  couple  with  a  part- 
ner, with  whom  he  affirmed  he  had  danced  at  every 
Christmas  for  nearly  half  a  century.  Master  Simon, 
who  seemed  to  be  a  kind  of  connecting  link  between  the 
old  times  and  the  new,  and  to  be  withal  a  Uttle  anti- 
quated in  the  taste  of  his  accomplishments,  evidently 
piqued  himself  on  his  dancing,  and  was  endeavoring  to 
gain  credit  by  the  heel  and  toe,  rigadoon,  and  other 
graces  of  the  ancient  school;  but  he  had  unluckily  as- 
sorted himself  with  a  little  romping  girl  from  boarding- 
school,  who,  by  her  wild  vivacity,  kept  him  continually 
on  the  stretch,  and  defeated  all  his  sober  attempts  at 
elegance: — such  are  the  ill-assorted  matches  to  which 
antique  gentlemen  are  unfortunately  prone ! 

The  young  Oxonian,  on  the  contrary,  had  led  out 
one  of  his  maiden  aunts,  on  whom  the  rogue  played  a 
thousand  little  knaveries  with  impunity :  he  was  full  of 
practical  jokes,  and  his  delight  was  to  tease  his  aunts 
and  cousins;  yet,  Uke  all  madcap  youngsters,  he  was  a 

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CHRISTMAS  EVE  297 

universal  favorite  among  the  women.  The  most 
interesting  couple  in  the  dance  was  the  young  officer 
and  a  ward  of  the  sqtiire's,  a  beautiful  blushing  girl  of 
seventeen.  From  several  shy  glances  which  I  had 
noticed  in  the  course  of  the  evening,  I  suspected  there 
was  a  little  kindness  growing  up  between  them;  and, 
indeed,  the  young  soldier  was  just  the  hero  to  captivate 
a  romantic  girl.  He  was  tall,  slender,  and  handsome, 
and,  like  most  young  British  officers  of  late  years,  had 
picked  up  various  small  accomplishments  on  the  conti- 
nent— ^he  could  talk  French  and  Italian — draw  land- 
scapes, sing  very  tolerably — dance  divinely;  but, 
above  all,  he  had  been  wounded  at  Waterloo: — ^what 
girl  of  seventeen,  well  read  in  poetry  and  romance, 
could  resist  such  a  mirror  of  chivalry  and  perfection ! 
The  moment  the  dance  was  over,  he  caught  up  a 
guitar,  and,  lolling  against  the  old  marble  fireplace,  in 
an  attitude  which  I  am  half  inclined  to  suspect  was 
studied,  began  the  little  French  air  of  the  Troubadour. 
The.  squire,  however,  exclaimed  against  having  any- 
thing on  Christmas  eve  but  good  old  English;  upon 
which  the  young  minstrel,  casting  up  his  eye  for  a 
moment,  as  if  in  an  effort  of  memory,  struck  into 
another  strain,  and,  with  a  charming  air  of  gallantry, 
gave  Herrick's  "Night-Piece  to  Julia.*' 

Her  eyes  the  glow-worm  lend  thee, 
The  shooting  stars  attend  thee, 

And  the  elves  also, 

Whose  little  eyes  glow 
Like  the  sparks  of  fire,  befriend  thee. 

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298  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

No  Will  o'  the  Wisp  mislight  thee; 
Nor  snake  nor  slow-worm  bite  thee; 

But  on,  on  thy  way, 

Not  making  a  stay, 
Since  ghost  there  is  none  to  affright  thee. 

Then  let  not  the  dark  thee  cumber; 
What  though  the  moon  does  slumber, 

The  stars  of  the  night 

Will  lend  thee  their  light, 
Like  tapers  clear  without  number. 

Then  Julia,  let  me  woo  thee, 
Thus,  thus  to  come  unto  me. 

And  when  I  shall  meet 

Thy  silvery  feet. 
My  soul  I  'U  pour  into  thee. 

The  song  might  or  might  not  have  been  intended  in 
compliment  to  the  fair  Julia,  for  so  I  found  his  partner 
was  called;  she,  however,  was  certainly  unconscious  of 
any  such  application,  for  she  never  looked  at  the 
singer,  but  kept  her  eyes  cast  upon  the  flpor.  Her 
face  was  suffused,  it  is  true,  with  a  beautiful  blush,  and 
there  was  a  gentle  heaving  of  the  bosom,  but  all  that 
was  doubtless  caused  by  the  exercise  of  the  dance; 
indeed,  so  great  was  her  indifference,  that  she  amused 
herself  with  plucking  to  pieces  a  choice  bouquet  of  hot- 
house flowers,  and  by  the  time  the  song  was  concluded 
the  nosegay  lay  in  ruins  on  the  floor. 

The  party  now  broke  up  for  the  night  with  the  kind- 
hearted  old  custom  of  shaking  hands.  As  I  passed 
through  the  hall,  on  my  way  to  my  chamber,  the  d3dng 

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CHRISTMAS  EVE  299 

embers  of  the  Yule  clog  still  sent  forth  a  dusky  glow, 
and  had  it  not  been  the  season  when  **no  spirit  dare^. 
stir  abroad,  *'  I  should  have  been  half  tempted  to  steal 
from  my  room  at  midnight,  and  peep  whether  the 
fairies  might  not  be  at  their  revels  about  the  hearth. 
My  chamber  was  in  the  old  part  of  the  mansion,  the 
ponderous  furniture  of  which  might  have  been  fabri- 
cated in  the  days  of  the  giants.  The  room  was 
panelled  with  cornices  of  heavy  carved  work,  in  which 
flowers  and  grotesque  faces  were  strangely  inter- 
mingled; and  a  row  of  black-looking  portraits  stared 
mournfully  at  me  from  the  walls.  The  bed  was  of 
rich,  though  faded  damask,  with  a  lofty  tester,  and 
stood  in  a  niche  opposite  a  bow  window.  I  had 
scarcely  got  into  bed  when  a  strain  of  music  seemed  to 
break  forth  in  the  air  just  below  the  window.  I 
listened,  and  found  it  proceeded  from  a  band,  which  I 
concluded  to  be  the  Waits  from  some  neighboring^ 
village.  They  went  round  the  house,  playing  under 
the  windows.  I  drew  aside  the  curtains  to  hear  them 
more  distinctly.  The  moonbeams  fell  through  the 
upper  part  of  the  casement,  partially  lighting  up  the 
antiquated  apartment.  The  sounds,  as  they  receded, 
became  more  soft  and  aerial,  and  seemed  to  accord" 
with  the  quiet  and  moonlight.  I  listened  and  lis- 
tened— they  became  more  and  more  tender  and  re- 
mote, and,  as  they  gradually  died  away,  my  head 
sunk  upon  the  pillow,  and  I  fell  asleep. 


yGoogk 


CHRISTMAS    DAY 

Dark  and  dull  night,  flie  hence  away, 
And  give  the  honor  to  this  day 
That  sees  December  tum'd  to  May. 

Why  does  the  chilling  winter's  mome 
Smile  like  a  field  beset  with  com? 
Or  smell  like  to  a  meade  new-shome, 
Thus  on  the  sudden? — Come  and  see 
The  cause  why  things  thus  fragrant  be. 

Herrick. 

When  I  woke  the  next  morning,  it  seemed  as  if  all 
the  events  of  the  preceding  evening  had  been  a  dream, 
and  nothing  but  the  identity  of  the  ancient  chamber 
convinced  me  of  their  reality.  While  I  lay  musing  on 
my  pillow,  I  heard  the  sound  of  Kttle  feet  pattering 
outside  of  the  door,  and  a  whispering  consultation. 
Presently  a  choir  of  small  voices  chanted  forth  an  old 
Christmas  carol,  the  burden  of  which  was — 

Rejoice,  our  Saviour  he  was  bom 
On  Christmas  day  in  the  morning. 

I  rose  softly,  slipt  on  my  clothes,  opened  the  door 
suddenly,  and  beheld  one  of  the  most  beautiful  little 
fairy  groups  that  a  painter  could  imagine.  It  consisted 

300 

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CHRISTMAS  DAY  301 

of  a  boy  and  two  girls,  the  eldest  not  more  than  six, 
and  lovely  as  seraphs.  They  were'going  the  rounds  of 
the  house,  and  singing  at  every  chamber  door;  but  my 
sudden  appearance  frightened  them  into  mute  bash- 
fulness.  They  remained  for  a  moment  playing  on 
their  lips  with  their  fingers,  and  now  and  then  stealing 
a  shy  glance  from  under  their  eyebrows,  until,  as  if  by 
one  impulse,  they  scampered  away,  and  as  they 
turned  an  angle  of  the  gallery,  I  heard  them  laughing 
in  triumph  at  their  escape. 

Everything  conspired  to  produce  kind  and  happy 
feelings  in  this  stronghold  of  old-fashioned  hospitality. 
The  window  of  my  chamber  looked  out  upon  what  in 
summer  would  have  been  a  beautiful  landscape. 
There  was  a  sloping  lawn,  a  fine  stream  winding  at  the 
foot  of  it,  and  a  track  of  park  beyond,  with  noble 
clumps  of  trees,  and  herds  of  deer.  At  a  distance  was 
a  neat  hamlet,  with  the  smoke  from  the  cottage  chim- 
neys hanging  over  it;  and  a  church  with  its  dark  spire 
in  strong  relief  against  the  clear,  cold  sky.  The  house 
was  surrounded  with  evergreens,  according  to  the 
English  custom,  which  would  have  given  almost  an 
appearance  of  summer;  but  the  morning  was  extremely 
frosty;  the  light  vapor  of  the  preceding  evening  had 
been  precipitated  by  the  cold,  and  covered  all  the  trees 
and  every  blade  of  grass  with  its  fine  crystallizations. 
The  rays  of  a  bright  morning  sun  had  a  dazzling  effect 
among  the  glittering  foliage.  A  robin,  perched  upon 
the  top  of  a  mountain  ash  that  hung  its  clusters  of  red 
berries  just  before  my  window,  was  basking  himself  in 

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302  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

the  sunshine,  and  piping  a  few  querulous  notes;  and  a 
peacock  was  displaying  all  the  glories  of  his  train,  and 
strutting  with  the  pride  and  gravity  of  a  Spanish 
grandee,  on  the  terrace  walk  below. 

I  had  scarcely  dressed  myself,  when  a  servant 
appeared  to  invite  me  to  family  prayers.  He  showed 
me  the  way  to  a  small  chapel  in  the  old  wing  of  the 
house,  where  I  found  the  principal  part  of  the  family 
already  assembled  in  a  kind  of  gallery,  furnished  with 
cushions,  hassocks,  and  large  prayer-books;  the  ser- 
vants were  seated  on  benches  below.  The  old  gentle- 
man read  prayers  from  a  desk  in  front  of  the  gallery, 
and  Master  Simon  acted  as  derk,  and  made  the 
responses;  and  I  must  do  him  the  justice  to  say  that  he 
acquitted  himself  with  great  gravity  and  decorum. 

The  service  was  followed  by  a  Christmas  carol, 
which  Mr.  Bracebridge  himself  had  constructed  from  a 
poem  of  his  favorite  author,  Herrick;  and  it  had  been 
adapted  to  an  old  church  melody  by  Master  Simon. 
As  there  were  several  good  voices  among  the  house- 
hold, the  effect  was  extremely  pleasing;  but  I  was  par- 
ticularly gratified  by  the  exaltation  of  heart,  and 
sudden  sally  of  grateful  feeling,  with  which  the  worthy 
squire  delivered  one  stanza;  his  eye  glistening,  gnd  his 
voice  rambling  out  of  all  the  bounds  of  time  and  tune: 


T  is  thou  that  crown'st  my  glittering  hearth 

With  guiltlesse  mirth, 
And  giv'st  me  Wassaile  bowles  to  drink 

Spiced  to  the  brink: 


yGoogk 


CHRISTMAS  DAY  303 

Lord,  'tis  thy  plenty-dropping  hand 

That  soiles  my  land: 
And  giv'st  me  for  my  bushell  sowne. 

Twice  ten  for  one. 

I  afterwards  understood  that  early  morning  service 
was  read  on  every  Sunday  and  saint's  day  throughout 
the  year,  either  by  Mr.  Bracebridge  or  by  some  mem- 
oer  of  the  family.  It  was  once  almost  universally  the 
case  at  the  seats  of  the  nobility  and  gentry  of  England, 
and  it  is  much  to  be  regretted  that  the  custom  is 
falling  into  neglect;  for  the  dullest  observer  must  be 
sensible  of  the  order  and  serenity  prevalent  in  those 
households,  where  the  occasional  exercise  of  a  beauti- 
ful form  of  worship  in  the  morning  gives,  as  it  were,  the 
key-note  to  every  temper  for  the  day,  and  attunes 
every  spirit  to  harmony. 

Our  breakfast  consisted  of  what  the  squire  denomi- 
nated true  old  English  fare.  He  indulged  in  some 
bitter  lamentations  over  modem  breakfasts  of  tea  and 
toast,  which  he  censured  as  among  the  causes  of 
modem  effeminacy  and  weak  nerves,  and  the  decline 
of  old  English  heartiness;  and  though  he  admitted 
them  to  his  table  to  suit  the  palates  of  his  guests,  yet 
there  was  a  brave  display  of  cold  meats,  wine,  and  ale, 
on  the  sideboard. 

After  breakfast  I  walked  about  the  grounds  with 
Frank  Bracebridge  and  Master  Simon,  or  Mr.  Simon, 
as  he  was  called  by  everybody  but  the  squire.  We 
were  escorted  by  a  ntmaber  of  gentlemanlike  dogs, 
that  seemed  lotmgers  about  the  establishment;  from 

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304  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

the  frisking  spaniel  to  the  steady  old  stag-hound;  the 
last  of  which  was  of  a  race  that  had  been  in  the  family 
time  out  of  mind;  they  were  all  obedient  to  a  dog- 
whistle  which  hung  to  Master  Simon's  buttonhole, 
and  in  the  midst  of  their  gambols  would  glance  an  eye 
occasionally  upon  a  small  switch  he  carried  in  his  hand. 
The  old  mansion  had  a  still  more  venerable  look  in 
the  yellow  sunshine  than  by  pale  moonlight;  and  I 
could  not  but  feel  the  force  of  the  squire's  idea,  that  the 
formal  terraces,  heavily  moulded  balustrades,  and 
clipped  yew-trees  carried  with  them  an  air  of  proud 
aristocracy.  There  appeared  to  be  an  unusual  num- 
ber of  peacocks  about  the  place,  and  I  was  making 
Bome  remarks  upon  what  I  termed  a  flock  of  them, 
that  were  basking  tmder  a  sunny  wall,  when  I  was 
gently  corrected  in  my  phraseology  by  Master  Simon, 
who  told  me  that,  according  to  the  most  ancient  and 
approved  treatise  on  hunting,  I  must  say  a  muster  of 
peacocks.  *'In  the  same  way,"  added  he,  with  a 
slight  air  of  pedantry,  **we  say  a  flight  of  doves  or 
swallows,  a  bevy  of  quails,  a  herd  of  deer,  of  wrens,  or 
cranes,  a  skulk  of  foxes,  or  a  building  of  rooks.**  He 
went  on  to  inform  me  that,  according  to  Sir  Anthony 
Pitzherbert,  we  ought  to  ascribe  to  this  bird  **both 
understanding  and  glory;  for,  being  praised,  he  will 
presently  set  up  his  tail,  chiefly  against  the  sun,  to  the 
intent  you  may  the  better  behold  the  beauty  thereof. 
But  at  the  fall  of  the  leaf,  when  his  tail  falleth,  he  will 
mourn  and  hide  himself  in  comers,  till  his  tail  come 
again  as  it  was.  *' 


yGoogk 


CHRISTMAS  DAY  305 

I  could  not  help  smiling  at  this  display  of  small 
erudition  on  so  whimsical  a  subject;  but  I  found  that 
the  peacocks  were  birds  of  some  consequence  at  the 
hall;  for  Frank  Bracebridge  informed  me  that  they 
were  great  favorites  with  his  father,  who  was  extremely 
careful  to  keep  up  the  breed;  partly  because  they 
belonged  to  chivalry,  and  were  in  great  request  at  the 
stately  banquets  of  the  olden  time;  and  partly  because 
they  had  a  pomp  and  magnificence  about  them,  highly 
becoming  an  old  family  mansion.  Nothing,  he  was 
accustomed  to  say,  had  an  air  of  greater  state  and 
dignity  than  a  peacock  perched  upon  an  antique  stone 
balustrade. 

Master  Simon  had  now  to  hurry  off,  having  an 
appointment  at  the  parish  church  with  the  village 
choristers,  who  were  to  perform  some  music  of  his 
selection.  There  was  something  extremely  agreeable 
in  the  cheerful  flow  of  animal  spirits  of  the  Httle  man; 
and  I  confess  I  had  been  somewhat  surprised  at  his  apt 
quotations  from  authors  who  certainly  were  not  in  the 
range  of  every-day  reading.  I  mentioned  this  last 
circumstance  to  Frank  Bracebridge,  who  told  me  with 
a  smile  that  Master  Simon's  whole  stock  of  erudi- 
tion was  confined  to  some  half  a  dozen  old  authors, 
which  the  squire  had  put  into  his  hands,  and  which 
he  read  over  and  over,  whenever  he  had  a  studious 
fit;  as  he  sometimes  had  on  a  rainy  day,  or  a  long 
winter  evening.  Sir  Anthony  Fitzherbert's  Book  of 
Husbandry;  Markham's  Country  Contentments;  the 
Tretyse  of  Hunting;  by  Sir  Thomas  Cockayne,  Knight; 

30 

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306  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

Izaac  Walton's'  Angler,  and  two  or  three  more  such 
ancient  worthies  of  the  pen,  were  his  standard  author- 
ities; and,  like  all  men  who  know  but  a  few  books,  he 
looked  up  to  them  with  a  kind  of  idolatry,  and  quoted 
them  on  all  occasions.  As  to  his  songs,  they  were 
chiefly  picked  out  of  old  books  in  the  squire's  library, 
and  adapted  to  tunes  that  were  popular  among  the 
choice  spirits  of  the  last  century.  His  practical 
application  of  scraps  of  literatiu^,  however,  had 
caused  him  to  be  looked  upon  as  a  prodigy  of  book 
knowledge  by  all  the  grooms,  huntsmen,  and  small 
sportsmen  of  the  neighborhood. 

While  we  were  talking  we  heard  the  distant  tolling 
of  the  village  bell,  and  I  was  told  that  the  squire  was  a 
little  particular  in  having  his  household  at  church  on  a 
Christmas  morning ;  considering  it  a  day  of  pouring  out 
of  thanks  and  rejoicing;  for,  as  old  Tusser  observed, 

At  Christmas  be  merry,  and  thankful  withal^ 

And  feast  thy  poor  neighbors,  the  great  with  the  small. 

"If  you  are  disposed  to  go  to  church,"  said  Frank 
Bracebridge,  "I  can  promise  you  a  specimen  of  my 
cousin  Simon's  musical  achievements.  As  the  church 
is  destitute  of  an  organ,  he  has  formed  a  band  from  the 
village  amateurs,  and  established  a  musical  club  for 
their  improvement;  he  has  also  sorted  a  choir,  as  he 
sorted  my  father's  pack  of  hounds,  according  to  the 
directions  of  Jervaise  Markham,  in  his  Country  Con* 
tentments;  for  the  bass  he  has  sought  out  all  the  'deqi^ 


yGoogk 


CHRISTMAS  DAY  307 

solemn  mouths/  and  for  the  tenor  the  'loud-ringing 
mouths, '  among  the  country  bumpkins ;  and  for  *  sweet 
mouths, '  he  has  culled  with  curious  taste  among  the 
prettiest  lasses  in  the  neighborhood;  though  these  last, 
he  affirms,  are  the  most  difficult  to  keep  in  tune;  your 
pretty  female  singer  being  exceedingly  wayward  and 
capricious,  and  very  liable  to  accident." 

As  the  morning,  though  frosty,  was  remarkably  fine 
and  clear,  the  most  of  the  family  walked  to  the  church, 
which  was  a  very  old  building  of  gray  stone,  and  stood 
near  a  village,  about  half  a  mile  from  the  park  gate. 
Adjoining  it  was  a  low  snug  parsonage,  which  seemed 
coeval  with  the  church.  The  front  of  it  was  perfectly 
matted  with  a  yew-tree,  that  had  been  trained  against 
its  walls,  through  the  dense  foliage  of  which,  apertures 
had  been  formed  to  admit  light  into  the  small  antique 
lattices.  As  we  passed  this  sheltered  nest,  the  parson 
issued  forth  and  preceded  us. 

I  had  expected  to  see  a  sleek  well-conditioned  pastor, 
such  as  is  often  found  in  a  snug  living  in  the  vicinity  of 
a  rich  patron's  table,  but  I  was  disappointed.  The 
parson  was  a  little,  meagre,  black-looking  man,  with  a 
grizzled  wig  that  was  too  wide,  and  stood  off  from  each 
ear;  so  that  his  head  seemed  to  have  shrunk  away 
within  it,  like  a  dried  filbert  in  its  shell.  He  wore  a 
rusty  coat,  with  great  skirts,  and  pockets  that  would 
have  held  the  church  Bible  and  prayer-book:  and  his 
small  legs  seemed  still  smaller,  from  being  planted  in 
large  shoes,  decorated  with  enormous  buckles. 

I  was  informed  by  Frank  Bracebridge,  that  the  par- 
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308  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

son  had  been  a  chum  of  his  father's  at  Oxford,  and  had 
received  this  living  shortly  after  the  latter  had  come  to 
his  estate.  He  was  a  complete  black-letter'  hunter, 
and  would  scarcely  read  a  wt)rk  printed  in  the  Roman 
character.  The  editions  of  Caxton  and  Wynkin  de 
Worde  were  his  delight;  and  he  was  indefatigable  in 
his  researches  after  such  old  English  writers  as  have 
fallen  into  oblivion  from  their  worthlessness.  In 
deference,  perhaps,  to  the  notions  of  Mr.  Bracebridge, 
he  had  made  diligent  investigations  into  the  festive 
rites  and  holiday  customs  of  former  times;  and  had 
been  as  zealous  in  the  inquiry  as  if  he  had  been  a  boon 
companion;  but  it  was  merely  with  that  plodding 
spirit  with  which  men  of  adust  temperament  follow  up 
any  track  of  study,  merely  because  it  is  denominated 
learning;  indifferent  to  its  intrinsic  nature,  whether  it 
be  the  illustration  of  the  wisdom  or  of  the  ribaldry  and 
obscenity  of  antiquity.  He  had  pored  over  these  old 
volumes  so  intensely  that  they  seemed  to  have  been 
reflected  in  his  countenance;  which,  if  the  face  be 
indeed  an  index  of  the  mind,  might  be  compared  to  a 
title-page  of  black-letter. 

On  reaching  the  church  porch,  we  found  the  parson 
rebuking  the  gray-headed  sexton  for  having  used  mis- 
tletoe among  the  greens  with  which  the  church  was 
decorated.  It  was,  he  observed,  an  unholy  plant, 
profaned  by  having  been  used  by  the  Druids  in  their 
mystic  ceremonies;  and  though  it  might  be  innocently 
employed  in  the  festive  ornamenting  of  halls  and 
kitchens,  yet  it  had  been  deemed  by  the  Fathers  of  the 

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CHRISTMAS  DAY  309 

Church'  as  unhallowed,  and  totally  unfit  for  sacred 
purposes.  So  tenacious  was  he  on  this  point,  that  the 
poor  sexton  was  obliged  to  strip  down  a  great  part  of 
the  humble  trophies  of  his  taste,  before  the  parson 
would  consent  to  enter  upon  the  service  of  th6  day. 

The  interior  of  the  church  was  venerable  but  simple; 
on  the  walls  were  several  mural  monuments  of  the 
Bracebridges,  and  just  beside  the  altar  was  a  tomb  of 
ancient  workmanship,  on  which  lay  the  effigy  of  a 
warrior  in  armor,  with  his  legs  crossed,  a  sign  of  his 
having  been  a  crusader.  I  was  told  it  was  one  of  the 
family  who  had  signalized  himself  in  the  Holy  Land, 
and  the  same  whose  picture  hung  over  the  fireplace  in 
the  hall. 

During  service.  Master  Simon  stood  up  in  the  pew, 
and  repeated  the  responses  very  audibly;  evincing 
that  kind  of  ceremonious  devotion  punctually  observed 
by  a  gentleman  of  the  old  school,  and  a  man  of  old 
family  connections.  I  observed  too  that  he  turned 
over  the  leaves  of  a  folio  prayer-book  with  something 
of  a  flourish;  possibly  to  show  off  an  enormous  seal- 
ring  which  enriched  one  of  his  fingers,  and  which  had 
the  look  of  a  family  relic.  But  he  was  evidently  most 
solicitous  about  the  musical  part  of  the  service,  keep- 
ing his  eye  fixed  intently  on  the  choir,  and  beating 
time  with  much  gesticulation  and  emphasis. 

The  orchestra  was  in  a  small  gallery,  and  presented  a 
most  whimsical  grouping  of  heads,  piled  one  above  the 
other,  among  which  I  particularly  noticed  that  of  the 
village  tailor,  a  pale  fellow  with  a  retreating  forehead 

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310  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

and  chin,  who  played  on  the  clarionet,  and  seemed  to 
have  blown  his  face  to  a  point;  and  there  was  another, 
a  short  pursy  man,  stooping  and  laboring  at  a  bass- 
viol,  so  as  to  show  nothing  but  the  top  of  a  rotmd  bald 
head,  like  the  egg  of  an  ostrich.  There  were  two  or 
three  pretty  faces  among  the  female  singers,  to  which 
the  keen  air  of  a  frosty  morning  had  given  a  bright 
rosy  tint;  but  the  gentlemen  choristers  had  evidently 
been  chosen,  like  old  Cremona  fiddles,  more  for  tone 
than  looks;  and  as  several  had  to  sing  from  the  same 
book,  there  were  clusterings  of  odd  physiognomies, 
not  unlike  those  groups  of  cherubs  we  sometimes  see 
on  country  tombstones. 

The  usual  services  of  the  choir  were  managed 
tolerably  well,  the  vocal  parts  generally  lagging  a 
little  behind  the  instnmiental,  and  some  loitering 
fiddler  now  and  then  making  up  for  lost  time  by 
travelling  over  a  passage  with  prodigious  celerity,  and 
clearing  more  bars  than  the  keenest  fox-hunter  to  be  in 
at  the  death.  But  the  great  trial  was  an  anthem  that 
had  been  prepared  and  arranged  by  Master  Simon, 
and  on  which  he  had  founded  great  expectation. 
Unluckily  there  was  a  blunder  at  the  very  outset;  the 
musicians  became  flurried;  Master  Simon  was  in  a 
fever;  everything  went  on  lamely  and  irregularly  until 
they  came  to  a  chorus  beginning  "  Now  let  us  sing  with 
one  accord,"  which  seemed  to  be  a  signal  for  parting 
company:  all  became  discord  and  confusion;  each 
shifted  for  himself,  and  got  to  the  end  as  well,  or, 
tather,  as  soon  as  he  could,  excepting  one  old  chorister 

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CHRISTMAS  DAY  311 

in  a  pair  of  horn  spectacles,  bestriding  and  pinching  a 
long  sonorous  nose,  who  happened  to  stand  a  little 
apart,  and,  being  wrapped  up  in  his  own  melody,  kept 
on  a  quavering  course,  wriggling  his  head,  ogling  his 
book,  and  winding  all  up  by  a  nasal  solo  of  at  least 
three  bars*  duration. 

The  parson  gave  us  a  most  erudite  sermon  on  the 
rites  and  ceremonies  of  Christmas,  and  the  propriety  of 
observing  it  not  merely  as  a  day  of  thanksgiving,  but 
of  rejoicing;  supporting  the  correctness  of  his  opinions 
by  the  earliest  usages  of  the  Church,  and  enforcing 
them  by  the  authorities  of  Theophilus  of  Cesarea,  St. 
Cyprian,  St.  Chrysostom,  St.  Augustine,  and  a  cloud 
more^  of  saints  and  fathers,  from  whom  he  made 
copious  quotations.  I  was  a  little  at  a  loss  to  perceive 
the  necessity  of  such  a  mighty  array  of  forces  to  main- 
tain a  point  which  no  one  present  seemed  inclined  to 
dispute;  but  I  soon  fotmd  that  the  good  man  had  a 
legion  of  ideal  adversaries  to  contend  with;  having,  in 
the  course  of  his  researches  on  the  subject  of  Christ- 
mas, got  completely  embroiled  in  the  sectarian  con- 
troversies of  the  Revolution,  when  the  Puritans  made 
such  a  fierce  assault  upon  the  ceremonies  of  the  Church, 
and  poor  old  Christmas  was  driven  out  of  the  land  by 
proclamation  of  Parliament.*    The  worthy  parson 

*  From  the  Flying  Eagle,  a  small  Gazette,  published  Decem- 
ber 24,  1652:  "The  House  spent  much  time  this  day  about  the 
business  of  the  Navy,  for  settling  the  affairs  at  sea,  and  before 
they  rose,  were  presented  with  a  terrible  remonstrance  against 
Christmas  day,  grounded  upon  divine  Scriptures,  2  Cor.  v.  16: 

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312  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

lived  but  with  times  past,  and  knew  but  little  of  the 
present. 

Shut  up  among  worm-eaten  tomes  in  the  retirement 
of  his  antiquated  little  study,  the  pages  of  old  times 
were  to  him  as  the  gazettes  of  the  day;  while  the  era  of 
the  Revolution  was  mere  modem  history.  He  forgot 
that  nearly  two  centuries  had  elapsed  since  the  fiery 
persecution  of  poor  mince-pie  throughout  the  land; 
when  plum  porridge  was  denounced  as  **mere  popery, " 
and  roast-beef  as  anti-christian;  and  that  Christmas 
had  been  brought  in  again  tritunphantly  with  the 
merry  court  of  King  Charles  at  the  Restoration.  He 
kindled  into  warmth  with  the  ardor  of  his  contest,  and 
the  host  of  imaginary  foes  with  whom  he  had  to  com- 
bat; he  had  a  stubborn  conflict,  with  old  Prynne  and 
two  or  three  other  forgotten  champions  of  the  Round 
Heads,  ^  on  the  subject  of  Christmas  festivity;  and  con- 
cluded by  urging  his  hearers,  in  the  most  solemn  and 
affecting  manner,  to  stand  to  the  traditional  customs 
of  their  fathers,  and  feast  and  make  merry  on  this 
joyful  anniversary  of  the  Church. 

I  have  seldom  known  a  sermon  attended  apparently 

I  Cor.  XV.  14,  17;  and  in  honor  of  the  Lord's  Day,  grounded  upon 
these  Scriptures,  John  xx.  i;  Rev.  i.  10;  Psalm,  cxviii.  24;  Lev. 
xxiii.  7,  II ;  Mark  xv.  8;  Psalm  Ixxxiv.  10,  in  which  Christmas  is 
called  Anti-Christ's  masse,  and  those  Massemongers  and  Papists 
who  observe  it,  etc.  In  consequence  of  which  Pariiament  spent 
some  time  in  consultation  about  the  abolition  of  Christmas  day, 
passed  orders  to  that  effect,  and  resolved  to  sit  on  the  following 
day,  which  was  commonly  called  Christmas  day. " 

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CHRISTMAS  DAY  313 

with  more  immediate  effects;  for  on  leaving  the  church 
the  congregation  seemed  one  and  all  possessed  with  the 
gayety  of  spirit  so  earnestly  enjoined  by  their  pastor. 
The  elder  folks  gathered  in  knots  in  the  churchyard, 
greeting  and  shaking  hands ;  and  the  children  ran  about 
crying  Ule !  Ule !  and  repeating  some  uncouth  rhjnnes,* 
which  the  parson,  who  had  joined  us,  informed  me  had 
been  handed  down  from  days  of  yore.  The  villagers 
doffed  their  hats  to  the  squire  as  he  passed,  giving  him 
the  good  wishes  of  the  season  with  every  appearance  of 
heartfelt  sincerity,  and  were  invited  by  him  to  the  hall, 
to  take  something  to  keep  out  the  cold  of  the  weather; 
and  I  heard  blessings  uttered  by  several  of  the  poor, 
which  convinced  me  that,  in  the  midst  of  his  enjoy- 
ments, the  worthy  old  cavalier  had  not  forgotten  the 
true  Christmas  virtue  of  charity. 

On  our  way  homeward  his  heart  seemed  overflowed 
with  generous  and  happy  feelings.  As  we  passed  over 
a  rising  ground  which  commanded  something  of  a  pros- 
pect, the  sounds  of  rustic  merriment  now  and  then 
reached  our  ears :  the  squire  paused  for  a  few  moments, 
and  looked  around  with  an  air  of  inexpressible  benig- 
nity. The  beauty  of  the  day  was  of  itself  suflScient' 
to  inspire  philanthropy.  Notwithstanding  the  frosti- 
ness  of  the  morning,  the  sun  in  his  cloudless  journey 
had  acquired  sufficient  power  to  melt  away  the  thin 
covering  of  snow  from  every  southern  declivitv,  and  to 

♦  "Ule!  Ule! 

Three  puddings  in  a  pule 
Crack  nuts  and  cry  ule!" 

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314  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

bring  out  the  living  green  which  adorns  an  English 
landscape  even  in  midwinter.  Large  tracts  of  smiling 
verdure  contrasted  with  the  dazzling  whiteness  of  the 
shaded  slopes  and  hollows.  Every  sheltered  bank,  on 
which  the  broad  rays  rested,  jdelded  its  silver  rill  of 
cold  and  limpid  water,  glittering  through  the  dripping 
grass;  and  sent  up  slight  exhalations  to  contribute  to 
the  thin  haze  that  hung  just  above  the  surface  of  the 
earth.  There  was  something  truly  cheering  in  this 
triumph  of  warmth  and  verdure  over  the  frosty  thral- 
dom of  winter;  it  was,  as  the  squire  observed,  an  em- 
blem of  Christmas  hospitality,  breaking  through  the 
chills  of  ceremony  and  selfishness,  and  thawing  every 
heart  into  a  flow.  He  pointed  with  pleasure  to  the 
indications  of  good  cheer  reeking  from  the  chimneys  of 
the  comfortable  farmhouses,  and  lowthatched  cottages. 
**I  love,"  said  he,  '*to  see  this  day  well  kept  by  rich 
and  poor;  it  is  a  great  thing  to  have  one  day  in  the 
year,  at  least,  when  you  are  sure  of  being  welcome 
wherever  you  go,  and  of  having,  as  it  were,  the  world 
thrown  all  open  to  you;  and  I  am  almost  disposed  to 
join  with  Poor  Robin,  in  his  malediction  on  every 
churlish  enemy  to  this  honest  festival — 

Those  who  at  Christmas  do  repine 

And  would  fain  hence  dispatch  him, 
May  they  with  old  Duke  Humphry  dine,* 
Or  else  may  Squire  Ketch*  catch  'em. 

The  squire  went  on  to  lament  the  deplorable  decay 
of  the  games  and  amusements  which  were  once  preva- 

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CHRISTMAS  DAY  315 

lent  at  this  sieason  among  the  lower  orders,  and 
countenanced  by  the  higher;  when  the  old  haUs  of  the 
castles  and  manor-houses  were  thrown  open  at  day- 
light; when  the  tables  were  covered  with  brawn,  and 
beef,  and  humming  ale;  when  the  harp  and  the  carol 
resotmded  all  day  long,  and  when  rich  and  poor  were 
alike  welcome  to  enter  and  make  merry.*  "Our  old 
games  and  local  customs, "  said  he,  ''had  a  great  effect 
in  making  the  peasant  fond  of  his  home,  and  the  pro- 
motion of  them  by  the  gentry  made  him  fond  of  his 
lord.  They  made  the  times  merrier,  and  kinder,  and 
better,  and  I  can  truly  say,  with  one  of  our  old  poets: 

I  like  them  well — ^the  curious  preciseness 
And  all-pretended  gravity  of  those 
That  seek  to  banish  hence  these  harmless  sports. 
Have  thrust  away  much  ancient  honesty. 

"The  nation,"  continued  he,  "is  altered;  we  have 
almost  lost  our  simple  true-hearted  peasantry.  They 
have  broken  asunder  from  the  higher  classes,  and 
seem  to  think  their  interests  are  separate.  They  have 
become  too  knowing,  and  begin  to  read  newspapers, 

*  "An  English  gentleman,  at  the  opening  of  the  great  day,  i.e., 
on  Christmas  day  in  the  morning,  had  all  his  tenants  and  neigh- 
bors enter  his  hall  by  daybreak.  The  strong  beer  was  broached 
and  the  blackjacks  went  plentifully  about  with  toast,  sugar  and 
nutmeg,  and  good  Cheshire  cheese.  The  Hackin  (the  great 
sausage)  must  be  boiled  by  daybreak,  or  else  two  yoimg  men  must 
take  the  maiden  (i.  e.,  the  cook)  by  the  arms,  and  run  her  roimd 
the  market-place  till  she  is  shamed  of  her  laziness. " — Round  about 
our  Sea- Coal  Fire. 

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3i6  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

listen  to  ale-hotise  politicians,  and  talk  of  reform. 
I  think  one  mode  to  keep  them  in  good  htimor  in  these 
hard  times  would  be  for  the  nobility  and  gentry  to  pass 
more  time  on  their  estates,  mingle  more  among  the 
country  people,  and  set  the  merry  old  English  games 
going  again. " 

Such  was  the  good  squire's  project  for  mitigating 
public  discontent ' :  and,  indeed,  he  had  once  attempted 
to  put  his  doctrine  in  practice,  and  a  few  years  before 
had  kept  open  house  during  the  holidays  in  the  old 
style.  The  cotmtry  people,  however,  did  not  tmder- 
stand  how  to  play  their  parts  in  the  scene  of  hospi- 
tality; many  uncouth  circumstances  occurred;  the 
manor  was  overrun  by  all  the  vagrants  of  the  country, 
and  more  beggars  drawn  into  the  neighborhood  in  one 
week  than  the  parish  officers  could  get  rid  of  in  a  year. 
Since  then,  he  had  contented  himself  with  inviting  the 
decent  part  of  the  neighboring  peasantry  to  call  at  the 
hall  on  Christmas  day,  and  with  distributing  beef,  and 
bread,  and  ale,  among  the  poor,  that  they  might  make 
merry  in  their  own  dwellings. 

We  had  not  been  long  home  when  the  sound  of 
music  was  heard  from  a  distance.  A  band  of  country 
lads,  without  coats,  their  shirt-sleeves  fancifully  tied 
with  ribbons,  their  hats  decorated  with  greens,  and 
clubs  in  their  hands,  was  seen  advancing  up  the  ave- 
nue, followed  by  a  large  number  of  villagers  and  peas- 
antry. They  stopped  before  the  hall  door,  where  the 
music  struck  up  a  peculiar  air,  and  the  lads  performed 
a  curious  and  intricate  dance,  advancing,  retreating. 

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CHRISTMAS  DAY  317 

and  striking  their  clubs  together,  keeping  exact  time  to 
the  music;  while  one,  whimsically  crowned  with  a  fox's 
skin,  the  tail  of  which  flaunted  down  his  back,  kept 
capering  round  the  skirts  of  the  dance,  and  rattling  a 
Christmas  box  with  many  antic  gesticulations. 

The  squire  eyed  this  fanciful  exhibition  with  great 
interest  and  delight,  and  gave  me  a  full  account  of  its 
origin,  which  he  traced  to  the  times  when  the  Romans 
held  possession  of  the  island;  plainly  proving  that  this 
was  a  lineal  descendant  of  the  sword  dance  of  the  an- 
cients. '*It  was  now,"  he  said,  "nearly  extinct,  but 
he  had  accidentally  met  with  traces  of  it  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, and  had  encouraged  its  revival;  though,  to 
tell  the  truth,  it  was  too  apt  to  be  followed  up  by  the 
rough  cudgel  play,  and  broken  heads  in  the  evening. " 

After  the  dance  was  concluded,  the  whole  party  was 
entertained  with  brawn  and  beef,  and  stout  home- 
brewed. The  squire  himself  mingled  among  the 
3rustics,  and  was  received  with  awkward  demonstra-r 
tions  of  deference  and  regard.  It  is  true  I  perceived 
two  or  three  of  the  younger  peasants,  as  they  were 
raising  their  tankards  to  their  mouths,  when  the 
squire's  back  was  turned,  making  something  of  a 
grimace,  and  giving  each  other  the  wink;  but  the 
moment  they  caught  my  eye  they  pulled  grave  faces, 
and  were  exceedingly  demure.  With  Master  Simon, 
however,  they  all  seemed  more  at  their  ease.  His 
varied  occupations  and  amusements  had  made  him 
well  known  throughout  the  neighborhood.  He  was  a 
visitor  at  every  farmhouse  and  cottage;  gossiped  with 

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3i8  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

the  farmers  and  their  wives;  romped  with  their 
daughters;  and,  like  that  type  of  a  vagrant  bachelor, 
the  htimblebee,  tolled  the  sweets  from  all  the  rosy  lips, 
of  the  country  round. 

The  bashf ulness  of  the  guests  soon  gave  way  before 
good  cheer  and  affability.  There  is  something  genuine 
and  affectionate  in  the  gayety  of  the  lower  orders, 
when  it  is  excited  by  the  bounty  and  familiarity  of 
those  above  them;  the  warm  glow  of  gratitude  enters 
into  their  nwrth,  and  a  kind  word  or  a  small  pleasantry 
frankly  uttered  by  a  patron  gladdens  the  heart  of  the 
dependent  more  than  oil  and  wine.  When  the  squire 
had  retired,  the  merriment  increased,  and  there  was 
much  joking  and  laughter,  particularly  between 
Master  Simon  and  a  hale,  ruddy-faced,  white-headed 
farmer,  who  appeared  to  be  the  wit  of  the  village;  for 
I  observed  all  his  companions  to  wait  with  open 
mouths  for  his  retorts,  and  burst  into  a  gratuitous 
laugh  before  they  could  well  understand  them. 

The  whole  house  indeed  seemed  abandoned  to 
merriment :  as  I  passed  to  my  room  to  dress  for  dinner, 
I  heard  the  sound  of  music  in  a  small  court,  and  look- 
ing through  a  window  that  commanded  it,  I  perceived 
a  band  of  wandering  musicians,  with  pandean  pipes 
and  tambourine;  a  pretty,  coquettish  housemaid  was 
dancing  a  jig  with  a  smart  country  lad,  while  several  of 
the  other  servants  were  looking  on.  In  the  midst  of 
her  sport  the  girl  caught  a  glimpse  of  my  face  at  the 
window,  and,  coloring  up,  ran  off  with  an  air  of  roguish 
affected  confusion. 

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THE  CHRISTMAS  DINNER 

Lo,  now  is  come  our  joyful'st  feast! 

Let  every  man  be  jolly, 
Eache  roome  with  yvie  leaves  is  drest, 

And  every  post  with  holly. 
Now  all  our  neighbors*  chimneys  smoke, 

And  Christmas  blocks  are  burning; 
Their  ovens  they  with  bak't  meats  choke 
And  all  their  spits  are  turning. 
Without  the  door  let  sorrow  lie, 
And  if,  for  cold,  it  hap  to  die, 
Wee'le  bury't  in  a  Christmas  pye, 
And  evermore  be  merry. 

Withers'  Juvenilia. 

I  HAD  finished  my  toilet,  and  was  loitering  with 
Frank  Bracebridge  in  the  library,  when  we  heard  a 
distant  thwacking  sound,  which  he  informed  me  was  a 
signal  for  the  serving  up  of  the  dinner.  The  squire 
kept  up  old  customs  in  kitchen  as  well  as  hall ;  and  the 
rolling-pin,  struck  upon  the  dresser  by  the  cook, 
summoned  the  servants  to  carry  in  the  meats. 

Just  in  this  nick  the  cook  knocked  thrice. 
And  all  the  waiters  in  a  trice 

His  summons  did  obey; 
Each  serving  man,  with  dish  in  hand, 
Maich'd  boldly  up,  like  our  train  band, 

Presented,  and  away.* 

*  Sir  John  Suckling. 

319 


yGoogk 


320  THE  SKETCH  BOOR 

The  dinner  was  served  up  in  the  great  hall,  where  the 
squire  always  held  his  Christmas  banquet.  A  blazing, 
crackling  fire  of  logs  had  been  heaped  on  to  warm  the 
spacious  apartment,  and  the  flame  went  sparkling  and 
wreathing  up  the  wide-mouthed  chimney.  The  great 
picture  of  the  crusader  and  his  white  horse  had  been 
profusely  decorated  with  greens  for  the  occasion;  and 
holly  and  ivy  had  likewise  been  wreathed  round  the 
helmet  and  weapons  on  the  opposite  wall,  which  I 
understood  were  the  arms  of  the  same  warrior.  I 
must  own,  by  the  by,  I  had  strong  doubts  about  the 
authenticity  of  the  painting  and  armor  as  having 
belonged  to  the  crusader,  they  certainly  having  the 
stamp  of  more  recent  days;  but  I  was  told  that  the 
painting  had  been  so  considered  time  out  of  mind;  and 
that,  as  to  the  armor,  it  had  been  found  in  a  lumber- 
room,  and  elevated  to  its  present  situation  by  the 
squire,  who  at  once  determined  it  to  be  the  armor  of 
the  family  hero;  and  as  he  was  absolute  authority  on 
all  such  subjects  in  his  own  household,  the  matter  had 
passed  into  current  acceptation.  A  sideboard  was  set 
out  just  under  this  chivalric  trophy,  on  which  was  a 
display  of  plate  that  might  have  vied  (at  least  in 
variety)  with  Belshazzar's  parade  of  the  vessels  ^  of  the 
temple:  "flagons,  cans,  cups,  beakers,  goblets,  basins, 
and  ewers" ;  the  gorgeous  utensils  of  good  companion- 
ship that  had  gradually  accimiulated  through  many 
generations  of  jovial  housekeepers.  Before  these 
stood  the  two  Yule  candles,  beaming  like  two  stars  of 
the  first  magnitude;  other  lights  were  distributed  in 

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THE  CHRISTMAS  DINNER  321: 

branches,  and  the  whole  array  glittered  like  a  firma- 
ment of  silver.  j 
We  were  ushered  into  this  banqueting  scene  with  the 
sound  of  minstrelsy,  the  old  harper  being  seated  on  a 
stool  beside  the  fireplace,  and  twanging  his  instrtmient 
with  a  vast  deal  more  power  than  melody.  Never  did 
Christmas  board  display  a  more  goodly  and  gracious 
assemblage  of  countenances;  those  who  were  not  hand- 
some were,  at  least,  happy;  and  happiness  is  a  rare 
improver  of  your  hard-favored  visage.  I  always  con- 
sider an  old  English  family  as  well  worth  studying  as  a 
collection  of  Holbein's  portraits  or  Albert  Durer's* 
prints.  There  is  much  antiquarian  lore  to  be  acqiiired ; 
much  knowledge  of  the  physiognomies  of  former  times. 
Perhaps  it  may  be  from  having  continually  before  their 
eyes  those  rows  of  old  family  portraits,  with  which  the 
mansions  of  this  country  are  stocked ;  certain  it  is,  that 
the  quaint  features  of  antiquity  are  often  most  faith- 
fully perpetuated  in  these  ancient  lines;  and  I  have 
traced  an  old  family  nose  through  a  whole  picture 
gallery,  legitimately  handed  down  from  generation  to 
generation,  almost  from  the  time  of  the  Conquest. 
Something  of  the  kind  was  to  be  observed  in  the 
worthy  company  around  me.  Many  of  their  faces 
had  evidently  originated  in  a  Gothic  age,  and  been 
merely  copied  by  succeeding  generations;  and  there 
was  one  little  girl  in  particular,  of  staid  demeanor, 
with  a  high  Roman  nose,  and  an  antique  vinegar 
aspect,  who  was  a  great  favorite  of  the  squire's,  being, 
as  he  said,  a  Bracebridge  all  over,  and  the  very" 

V 

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322  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

counterpart  of  one  of  his  ancestors  who  figured  in  the 
court  of  Henry  VIII. 

The  parson  said  grace,  which  was  not  a  short 
familiar  one,  such  as  is  commonly  addressed  to  the 
Deity  in  these  unceremonious  days;  but  a  long, 
courtly,  well- worded  one  of  the  ancient  school.  There 
was  now  a  pause,  as  if  something  was  expected;  when 
suddenly  the  butler  entered  the  hall  with  some  degree 
of  bustle:  he  was  attended  by  a  servant  on  each  side 
with  a  large  wax-light,  and  bore  a  silver  dish,  on  which 
was  an  enormous  pig's  head,  decorated  with  rosemary, 
with  a  lemon  in  its  mouth,  which  was  placed  with 
great  formality  at  the  head  of  the  table.  The  moment 
this  pageant  made  its  appearance,  the  harper  struck  up 
a  flourish;  at  the  conclusion  of  which  the  young 
Oxonian,  on  receiving  a  hint  from  the  squire,  gave, 
with  an  air  of  the  most  comic  gravity,  an  old  carol,  the 
first  verse  of  which  was  as  follows: 

Caput  apri  defero 

Reddens  laudes  Domino. 
The  boar's  head  in  hand  bring  I, 
With  garlands  gay  and  rosemary, 
I  pray  you  all  synge  merrily 

Qui  estis  in  convivio. 

Though  prepared  to  witness  many  of  these  little 
eccentricities,  from  being  apprised  of  the  peculiar 
hobby  of  mine  host;  yet,  I  confess,  the  parade  with 
which  so  odd  a  dish  was  introduced  somewhat  per- 
plexed me,  until  I  gathered  from  the  conversation  o£ 
the  squire  and  the  parson  that  it  was  meant  to  repre- 

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THE  CHRISTMAS  DINNER  323 

sent  the  bringing  in  of  the  boar's  head  ^ ;  a  dish  formerly 
served  up  with  much  ceremony  and  the  sound  of 
minstrelsy  and  song,  at  great  tables,  on  Christmas  day. 
**I  like  the  old  custom,**  said  the  squire,  **not  merely 
because  it  is  stately  and  pleasing  in  itself,  but  because 
it  was  observed  at  the  college  at  Oxford  at  which  I  was 
educated.  When  I  hear  the  old  song  chanted,  it 
brings  to  mind  the  time  when  I  was  young  and  game- 
some— ^and  the  noble  old  college  hall — ^and  my  fellow- 
students  loitering  about  in  their  black  gowns;  many  of 
whom,  poor  lads,  are  now  in  their  graves!*' 

The  parson,  however,  whose  mind  was  not  haunted 
by  such  associations,  and  who  was  always  more  taken 
up  with  the  text  than  the  sentiment,  objected  to  the 
Oxonian*s  version  of  the  carol;  which  he  affirmed  was 
different  from  that  sung  at  college.  He  went  on,  with 
the  dry  perseverance  of  a  commentator,  to  give  the 
college  reading,  accompanied  by  sundry  annotations; 
addressing  himself  at  first  to  the  company  at  large ;  but 
finding  their  attention  gradually  diverted  to  other 
talk  and  other  objects,  he  lowered  his  tone  as  his  num- 
ber of  auditors  diminished,  t^itil  he  concluded  his 
remarks  in  an  under  voice,  to  a  fat-headed  old  gentle- 
man next  him,  who  was  silently  engaged  in  the  dis- 
cussion of  a  huge  )lateful  of  turkey.* 

*  The  old  ceremony  of  serving  up  the  boar's  head  on  Christma* 
day  is  still  observed  in  the  hall  of  Queen's  College,  Oxford.  I  wall 
favored  by  the  parson  with  a  copy  of  the  caroL  as  now  sung,  and 
as  it  may  be  acceptable  to  such  of  my  readers  as  are  curious  ift 
these  grave  and  learned  matters,  I  give  it  entire.  ^ 

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324  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

The  table  was  literally  loaded  with  good  cheer,  and 
presented  an  epitome  of  country  abundance,  in  this 
season  of  overflowing  larders.  A  distinguished  post 
was  allotted  to  "ancient  sirloin,"  as  mine  host  termed 
it;  being,  as  he  added,  **the  standard  of  old  English 
hospitality,  and  a  joint  of  goodly  presence,  and  full  of 
expectation."  There  were  several  dishes  quaintly 
decorated,  and  which  had  evidently  something  tradi- 
tional in  their  embellishments;  but  about  which,  as 
I  did  not  Uke  to  appear  over-curious,  I  asked  no 
questions. 

I  could  not,  however,  but  notice  a  pie,  magnificently 
decorated  with  peacock's  feathers,  in  imitation  of  the 
tail  of  that  bird,  which  overshadowed  a  considerable 

The  boar's  head  in  hand  bear  I, 
Bedeck'd  with  bays  and  rosemary; 
And  I  pray  you,  my  masters,  be  meny 
Quot  estis  in  convivio. 

Caput  apri  def ero, 

Reddens  laudes  domino. 

The  boar's  head,  as  I  understand, 
Is  the  rarest  dish  in  all  this  land, 
Which  thus  bedeck'd  with  a  gay  garland 

Let  us  servire  cantico. 

Caput  apri  defero,  etc. 

Our  steward  hath  provided  this 
In  honor  of  the  King  of  Bliss, 
Whioh  on  this  day  to  be  served  is 
In  Reginensi  Atrio. 
Caput  apri  defero, 
etc.,  etc,  etc. 

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THE  CHRISTMAS  DINNER  325 

tract  of  the  table.  This,  the  squire  confessed,  with 
some  little  hesitation,  was  a  pheasant  pie,  though  a 
peacock  pie  was  certainly  the  most  authentical;  but 
there  had  been  such  a  mortality  among  the  peacocks 
this  season  that  he  could  not  prevail  upon  himself  to 
have  one  killed.* 

It  would  be  tedious,  perhaps,  to  my  wiser  readers, 
who  may  not  have  that  foolish  fondness  for  odd  and 
obsolete  things  to  which  I  am  a  little  given,  were  I  to 
mention  the  other  makeshifts  of  this  worthy  old 
humorist,  by  which  he  was  endeavoring  to  follow  up, 
though  at  humble  distance,  the  quaint  customs  of 
antiquity.  I  was  pleased,  however,  to  see  the  respect 
shown  to  his  whims  by  his  children  and  relatives ;  who, 
indeed,  entered  readily  into  the  full  spirit  of  them,  and 
seemed  all  well  versed  in  their  parts;  having  doubtless 

*  The  peacock  was  anciently  in  great  demand  for  stately  enter- 
tainments. Sometimes  it  was  made  into  a  pie,  at  one  end  of 
which  the  head  appeared  above  the  crust  in  all  its  plumage,  with 
the  beak  richly  gilt ;  at  the  other  end  the  tail  was  displayed.  Such 
pies  were  served  up  at  the  solemn  banquets  of  chivalry,  when 
knights-errant  pledged  themselves  to  undertake  any  perilous 
enterprise,  whence  came  the  ancient  oath,  used  by  Justice  Shallow, 
"by  cock  and  pie." 

The  peacock  was  also  an  important  dish  for  the  Christmas  feast; 
and  Massinger,  in  his  City  Madam^  gives  some  idea  of  the  extrava- 
gance with  which  this,  as  well  as  other  dishes,  was  prepared  for 
the  gorgeous  revels  of  the  olden  times: — 

"Men  may  talk  of  Country  Christmasses, 

"Their  thirty  pound  butter'd  eggs,  their  pies  of  carps'  tongues; 

"Their  pheasants  drench'dwith  ambergris;  the  carcases  ff  three 
fat  wethers  bruised  for  gravy  to  make  sauce  for  a  single  peacock" 

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326  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

been  present  at  many  a  rehearsal.  I  was  amused,  too, 
at  the  air  of  profound  gravity  with  which  the  butler 
and  other  servants  executed  the  duties  assigned  them, 
however  eccentric.  They  had  an  old-fashioned  look; 
having,  for  the  most  part,  been  brought  up  in  the 
household,  and  grown  into  keeping  with  the  antiquated 
mansion,  and  the  humors  of  its  lord;  and  most  prob- 
ably looked  upon  all  his  whimsical  regulations  as  the 
established  laws  of  honorable  housekeeping. 

When  the  cloth  was  removed,  the  butler  brought  in 
a  huge  silver  vessel  of  rare  and  curious  workmanship, 
which  he  placed  before  the  squire.  Its  appearance 
was  hailed  with  acclamation;  being  the  Wassail  Bowl, 
so  renowned  in  Christmas  festivity.  The  contents  had 
been  prepared  by  the  squire  himself;  fbr  it  was  a 
beverage  in  the  skilful  mixture  of  which  he  particularly 
prided  himself:  alleging  that  it  was  too  abstruse  and 
complex  for  the  comprehension  of  an  ordinary  servant. 
It  was  a  potation,  indeed,  that  might  well  make  the 
heart  of  a  toper  leap  within  him;  being  composed  of 
the  richest  and  raciest  wines,  highly  spiced  and  sweet- 
ened, with  roasted  apples  bobbing  about  the  surface.* 

The  old  gentleman's  whole  cotmtenance  beamed 
with  a  serene  look  of  indwelling  delight,  as  he  stirred 

*  The  Wassail  Bowl  was  sometimes  composed  of  ale  instead  of 
wine;  with  nutmeg,  sugar,  toast,  ginger,  and  roasted  crabs;  in 
this  way  the  nut-brown  beverage  is  still  prepared  in  some  old 
families,  and  round  the  hearths  of  substantial  farmers  at  Christ- 
mas. It  is  also  called  Lamb's  Wool,  and  is  celebrated  by  Henick 
in  his  "Twelfth  Night**: 

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THE  CHRISTMAS  DINNER  3^7 

this  mighty  bowl.  Having  raised  it  to  his  lips,  with  a 
hearty  wish  of  a  merry  Christmas  to  all  present,  he 
sent  it  brimming  round  the  board,  for  every  one  to 
follow  his  example,  according  to  the  primitive  style; 
pronouncing  it  "the  ancient  fountain  of  good  feeling, 
where  aU  hearts  met  together."* 

There  was  much  laughing  and  rall3dng  as  the  honest 
emblem  of  Christmas  joviality  circulated,  and  was 
kissed  rather  coyly  by  the  ladies.  When  it  reached 
Master  Simon,  he  raised  it  in  both  hands,  and  with  the 
air  of  a  boon  companion  struck  up  an  old  Wassail 
chanson. 

The  brown  bowle, 
^  The  merry  brown  bowle, 
As  it  goes  round  about-a, 

FiU 

StiU, 
Let  the  world  say  what  it  will, 
And  drink  your  fill  all  out-a. 


Next  crowne  the  bowle  full 

With  gentle  Lamb's  Wool; 
Add  sugar,  nutmeg,  and  ginger 

With  store  of  ale  too; 

And  thus  ye  must  doe 
To  make  the  Wassaile  a  swinger.    . 

♦"The  custom  of  drinking  out  of  the  same  cup  gave  place  to 
each  having  his  cup.  When  the  steward  came  to  the  doore  with 
the  Wassel,  he  was  to  cry  three  times,  Wassel,  Wassel,  Wassd,  and 
then  the  chappell  (chaplein)  was  to  answer  with  a  song. " — Arch- 


yGoogk 


aa8  '      THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

The  deep  canne, 

The  merry  deep  canne, 

As  thou  dost  freely  quaff-a, 

Sing 

Fling, 
Be  as  merry  as  a  king, 
And  sound  a  lusty  laugh-a.* 

Much  of  the  conversation  during  dinner  turned  upon 
family  topics,  to  which  I  was  a  stranger.  There  was, 
however,  a  great  deal  of  rallying  of  Master  Simon 
about  some  gay  widow,  with  whom  he  was  accused  of 
having  a  flirtation.  This  attack  was  commenced  by 
the  ladies;  but  it  was  continued  throughout  the  dinner 
by  the  fat-headed  old  gentleman  next  the  parson,  with 
the  persevering  assiduity  of  a  slow  hound;  being  one  of 
those  long-winded  jokers,  who,  though  rather  dull  at 
starting  game,  are  unrivalled  for  their  talents  in  hunt- 
ing it  down.  At  every  pause  in  the  general  conversa- 
tion, he  renewed  his  bantering  in  pretty  much  the  same 
terms;  winking  hard  at  me  with  both  eyes,  whenever 
he  gave  Master  Simon  what  he  considered  a  home 
thrust.  The  latter,  indeed,  seemed  fond  of  being 
teased  on  the  subject,  as  old  bachelors  are  apt  to  be; 
and  he  took  occasion  to  inform  me,  in  an  undertone, 
that  the  lady  in  question  was  a  prodigiously  fine 
woman,  and  drove  her  own  curricle. 

The  dinner-time  passed  away  in  this  flow  of  innocent 
hilarity,  and,  though  the  old  hall  may  have  resounded 
in  its  time  with  many  a  scene  of  broader  rout  and  revel, 

*  From  Poor  Robin's  Almanac 

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THE  CHRISTMAS  DINNER  329 

yet  I  doubt  whether  it  ever  witnessed  more  honest  and 
gentiine  enjoyment.  How  easy  it  is  for  one  benevolent 
being  to  diffuse  pleasure  arotmd  him ;  and  how  truly  is  a 
kind  heart  a  fountain  of  gladness,  making  everything  in 
its  vicinity  to  freshen  into  smiles!  The  joyous  disposi- 
tion of  the  worthy  squire  was  perfectly  contagious;  he 
was  happy  himself,  and  disposed  to  make  all  the  world 
happy;  and  the  little  eccentricities  of  his  humor  did  but 
season,  in  a  manner,  the  sweetness  of  his  philanthropy. 

When  the  ladies  had  retired,  the  conversation,  as 
usual,  became  still  more  animated;  many  good  things 
were  broached  which  had  been  thought  of  during 
dinner,  but  which  would  not  exactly  do  for  a  lady's  ear; 
and  though  I  cannot  positively  affirm  that  there  was 
much  wit  uttered,  yet  I  have  certainly  heard  many 
contests  of  rare  wit  produce  much  less  laughter.  Wit, 
after  all,  is  a  mighty  tart,  ptmgent  ingredient,  and 
much  too  acid  for  some  stomachs;  but  honest  good 
humor  is  the  oil  and  wine  of  a  merry  meeting,  and 
there  is  no  jovial  companionship  equal  to  that  where 
the  jokes  are  rather  small,  and  the  laughter  abtmdant. 

The  squire  told  several  long  stories  of  early  college 
pranks  and  adventures,  in  some  of  which  the  parson 
had  been  a  sharer;  though  in  looking  at  the  latter,  it 
required  some  effort  of  imagination  to  figure  such  a 
little  dark  anatomy  of  a  man  into  the  perpetrator  of  a 
madcap  gambol.  Indeed,  the  two  college  chums 
presented  pictures  of  what  men  may  be  made  by  their 
different  lots  in  life.  The  squire  had  left  the  univer- 
sity to  live  lustily  on  his  paternal  domains,  in  the 

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330  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

vigorous  enjoyment  of  prosperity  and  sunshine,  and 
had  flourished  on  to  a  hearty  and  florid  old  age; 
whilst  the  poor  parson,  on  the  contrary,  had  dried  and 
withered  away,  among  dusty  tomes,  in  the  silence  and 
shadows  of  his  study.  Still  there  seemed  to  be  a  spark 
of  almost  extinguished  fire,  feebly  glimmering  in  the 
bottom  of  his  soul;  and  as  the  squire  hinted  at  a  sly 
story  of  the  parson  and  a  pretty  milkmaid,  whom  they 
once  met  on  the  banks  of  the  Isis,  the  old  gentleman 
made  an  "alphabet  of  faces,"  which,  as  far  as  I  could 
decipher  his  physiognomy,  I  verily  believe  was 
indicative  of  laughter; — ^indeed,  I  have  rarely  met 
with  an  old  gentleman  that  took  absolute  offence  at 
the  imputed  gallantries  of  his  youth. 

I  fotmd  the  tide  of  wine  and  wassail  fast  gaining  on 
the  dry  land  of  sober  judgment.  The  company  grew 
merrier  and  louder  as  their  jokes  grew  duUer.  Master 
Simon  was  in  as  chirping  a  humor  as  a  grasshopper 
filled  with  dew;  his  old  songs  grew  of  a  warmer  com- 
plexion, and  he  began  to  talk  maudlin  about  the 
widow.  He  even  gave  a  long  song  about  the  wooing  of 
a  widow,  which  he  informed  me  he  had  gathered  from 
an  excellent  black-letter  work,  entitled  Cupid's 
Solicitor  for  Love,  containing  store  of  good  advice 
for  bachelors,  and  which  he  promised  to  lend  me:  the 
first  verse  was  to  this  effect : 

He  that  will  woo  a  widow  must  not  dally, 
He  must  make  hay  while  the  sun  doth  shine; 

He  must  not  stand  with  her,  shall  I,  shall  I, 
But  boldly  say  Widow,  thou  must  be  mine. 

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THE  CHRISTMAS  DINNER  331 

This  song  inspired  the  fat-headed  old  gentleman, 
who  made  several  attempts  to  tell  a  rather  broad  story 
out  of  Joe  Miller,"  that  was  pat  to  the  purpose;  but  he 
always  stuck  in  the  middle,  everybody  recollecting  the 
latter  part  excepting  himself.  The  parson,  too,  began 
to  show  the  effects  of  good  cheer,  having  gradually 
settled. down  into  a  doze,  and  his  wig  sitting  most 
suspiciously  on  one  side.  Just  at  this  juncture  we 
were  summoned  to  the  drawing-room,  and,  I  suspect, 
at  the  private  instigation  of  mine  host,  whose  jovij 
ality  seemed  always  tempered  with  a  proper  love  01 
decorum. 

After  the  dinner  table  was  removed,  the  hall  was 
given  up  to  the  younger  members  of  the  family,  who, 
prompted  to  all  kind  of  noisy  mirth  by  the  Oxonian 
and  Master  Simon,  made  its  old  walls  ring  with  their 
merriment,  as  they  played  at  romping  games.  I 
delight  in  witnessing  the  gambols  of  children,  and 
particularly  at  this  happy  holiday  season,  and  could 
not  help  stealing  out  of  the  drawing-room  on  hearing 
one  of  their  peals  of  laughter.  I  found  them  at  the 
game  of  blindman's-buff.  Master  Simon,  who  was 
the  leader  of  their  revels,  and  seemed  on  all  occasions 
to  fulfil  the  office  of  that  ancient  potentate,  the  Lord  of 
Misrule,*  was  blinded  in  the  midst  of  the  hall.  The 
little  beings  were  as  busy  about  him  as  the  mock 

*  At  Christmasse  there  was  in  the  Kinge's  house,  wheresoever 
hee  was  lodged,  a  lorde  of  misrule,  or  mayster  of  merie  disportes, 
and  the  like  had  ye  in  the  house  of  every  nobleman  of  honor,  or 
good  worshippe,  were  he  spirituall  or  temporalL — Stowe. 

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332  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

fairies  about  Falstaff*;  pinching  him,  plucking  at  the 
skirts  of  his  coat,  and  tickling  him  with  straws.  One 
fine  blue-eyed  girl  of  about  thirteen,  with  her  flaxen 
hair  all  in  beautiful  confusion,  her  froUc  face  in  a  glow, 
her  frock  half  torn  off  her  shoulders,  a  complete 
picture  of  a  romp,  was  the  chief  tormentor;  and,  from 
the  slyness  with  which  Master  Simon  avoided  the 
smaller  game,  and  hemmed  this  wild  little  nymph  in 
comers,  and  obliged  her  to  jtunp  shrieking  over  chairs, 
I  suspected  the  rogue  of  being  not  a  whit  more  blinded 
than  was  convenient. 

When  I  returned  to  the  drawing-room,  I  found  the 
company  seated  round  the  fire,  listening  to  the  parson, 
who  was  deeply  ensconced  in  a  high-backed  oaken 
chair,  the  work  of  some  cunning  artificer  of  yore, 
which  had  been  brought  from  the  library  for  his  par- 
ticular accommodation.  From  this  venerable  piece  of 
furniture,  with  which  his  shadowy  figure  and  dark 
weazen  face  so  admirably  accorded,  he  was  dealing  out 
strange  accounts  of  the  popular  superstitions  and 
legends  of  the  surrounding  country,  with  which  he  had 
become  acquainted  in  the  course  6i  his  antiquarian 
researches.  I  am  half  inclined  to  think  that  the  old 
gentleman  was  himself  somewhat  tinctured  with 
superstition,  as  men  are  very  apt  to  be  who  live  a 
recluse  and  studious  life  in  a  sequestered  part  of  the 
country,  and  pore  over  black-letter  tracts,  so  often 
filled  with  the  marvellous  and  supernatural.  He  gave 
us  several  anecdotes  of  the  fancies  of  the  neighboring 
peasantry,  concerning  the  effigy  of  the  crusader,  which 

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THE  CHRISTMAS  DINNER  333 

lay  on  the  tomb  by  the  church  altar.  As  it  was  the 
only  monument  of  the  kind  in  that  part  of  the  country, 
it  had  always  been  regarded  with  feelings  of  supersti- 
tion by  the  good  wives  of  the  village.  It  was  said  to 
get  up  from  the  tomb  and  walk  the  rounds  of  the 
church-yard  in  stormy  nights,  particularly  when  it 
thundered;  and  one  old  woman,  whose  cottage 
bordered  on  the  church-yard,  had  seen  it  through  the 
windows  of  the  church,  when  the  moon  shone,  slowly 
pacing  up  and  down  the  aisles.  It  was  the  belief  that 
some  wrong  had  been  left  unredressed  by  the  deceased, 
or  some  treasure  hidden,  ,which  kept  the  spirit  in  a 
state  of  trouble  and  restlessness.  Some  talked  of  gold 
and  jewels  buried  in  the  tomb,  over  which  the  spectre 
kept  watch;  and  there  was  a  story  current  of  a  sexton 
in  old  times,  who  endeavored  to  break  his  way  to  the 
coffin  at  night,  but,  just  as  he  reached  it,  received  a 
violent  blow  from  the  marble  hand  of  the  effigy,  which 
stretched  him  senseless  on  the  pavement.  These  tales 
were  often  laughed  at  by  some  of  the  sturdier  among 
the  rustics,  yet,  when  night  came  on,  there  were  many 
of  the  stoutest  unbeUevers  that  were  shy  of  venturing 
alone  in  the  footpath  that  led  across  the  church-yard. 
From  these  and  other  anecdotes  that  followed,  the 
crusader  appeared  to  be  the  favorite  hero  of  ghost 
stories  throughout  the  vicinity.  His  picture,  which 
hung  up  in  the  hall,  was  thought  by  the  servants  to 
have  something  supernatural  about  it;  for  they 
remarked  that,  in  whatever  part  of  the  hall  you  went, 
the  eyes  of  the  warrior  were  still  fixed  on  you.    The 

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334  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

old  porter's  wife,  too,  at  the  lodge,  who  had  been  bom 
and  brought  up  in  the  family,  and  was  a  great  gossip 
among  the  maid  servants,  affirmed,  that  in  her  young 
days  she  had  often  heard  say,  that  on  Midsummer  eve, 
when  it  was  well  known  all  kinds  of  ghosts,  goblins, 
and  fairies  become  visible  and  walk  abroad,  the 
crusader  used  to  mount  his  horse,  come  down  from  his 
picture,  ride  about  the  house,  down  the  avenue,  and  so 
to  the  church  to  visit  the  tomb ;  on  which  occasion  the 
church  door  most  civilly  swung  open  of  itself;  not  that 
he  needed  it ;  for  he  rode  through  closed  gates  and  even 
stone  walls,  and  had  been,  seen  by  one  of  the  dairy 
maids  to  pass  between  two  bars  of  the  great  park  gate, 
making  himself  as  thin  as  a  sheet  of  paper. 

All  these  superstitions  I  found  had  been  very  much 
countenanced  by  the  squire,  who,  though  not  supersti- 
tious himself,  was  very  fond  of  seeing  others  so.  He 
listened  to  every  goblin  tale  of  the  neighboring  gossips 
with  infinite  gravity,  and  held  the  porter's  wife  in  high 
favor  on  account  of  her  talent  for  the  marvellous. 
He  was  himself  a  great  reader  of  old  legends  and 
romances,  and  often  lamented  that  he  could  not 
believe  in  them,  for  a  superstitious  person,  he  thought, 
must  live  in  a  kind  of  fairy  land. 

Whilst  we  were  all  attention  to  the  parson's  stories, 
our  ears  were  suddenly  assailed  by  a  burst  of  hetero- 
geneous sounds  from  the  hall,  in  which  were  mingled 
something  like  the  clang  of  rude  minstrelsy,  with  the 
uproar  of  many  small  voices  and  girlish  laughter. 
The  door  suddenly  flew  open,  and  a  train  came  troop- 

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THE  CHRISTMAS  DINNER  335 

ing  into  the  room,  that  might  almost  have  been  mid- 
taken  for  the  breaking  up  of  the  court  of  Fairy.  That 
indefatigable  spirit,  Master  Simon,  in  the  faithful 
discharge  of  his  duties  as  lord  of  misrule,  had  conceived 
the  idea  of  a  Christmas  mummery  or  masking;  and 
having  called  in  to  his  assistance  the  Oxonian  and  the 
young  officer,  who  were  equally  ripe  for  anything  that 
should  occasion  romping  and  merriment,  they  had 
carried  it  into  instant  eflEect.  The  old  housekeeper 
had  been  consulted;  the  antique  clothes-presses  and 
wardrobes  rummaged,  and  made  to  yield  up  the  relics 
of  finery  that  had  not  seen  the  light  for  several 
generations;  the  yotmger  part  of  the  company  had 
been  privately  convened  from  the  parlor  and  hall,  and 
the  whole  had  been  bedizened  out,  into  a  burlesque 
imitation  of  an  antique  mask.* 

Master  Simon  led  the  van,  as  "Ancient  Christmas, " ' 
quaintly  apparelled  in  a  ruff,  a  short  cloak,  which  had 
very  much  the  aspect  of  one  of  the  old  housekeeper's 
petticoats,  and  a  hat  that  might  have  served  for  a 
village  steeple,  and  must  indubitably  have  figured  in 
the  days  of  the  Covenanters.  From  under  this  his 
nose  curved  boldly  forth,  flushed  with  a  frost-bitten 
bloom,  that  seemed  the  very  trophy  of  a  December 
blast.    He  was  accompanied  by  the  blue-eyed  romp, 

*  Maskings  or  mummeries  were  favorite  sports  at  Christmas 
in  old  times;  and  the  wardrobes  at  halls  and  manor-houses  were 
often  laid  under  contribution  to  furnish  dresses  and  fantastic 
disguisings.  I  strongly  suspect  Master  Simon  to  have  taken 
the  idea  of  his  from  Ben  Jonson's  Masque  of  Christmas. 

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336.  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

dished  up  as  ''Dame  Mince  Pie,"  in  the  venerable 
magnificence  of  a  faded  brocade,  long  stomacher, 
peaked  hat,  and  high-heeled  shoes.  The  young  officer 
appeared  as  Robin  Hood,  in  a  sporting  dress  of  Kendal 
green,  and  a  foraging  cap  with  a  gold  tassel. 

The  costtime,  to  be  sure,  did  not  bear  testimony  to 
deep  research,  and  there  was  an  evident  eye  to  the  pic- 
turesque, natural  to  a  young  gallant  in  the  presence  of 
his  mistress.  The  fair  Julia  hung  on  his  arm  in  a 
pretty  rustic  dress,  as  "Maid  Marian.'*  The  rest  of 
the  train  had  been  metamorphosed  in  various  ways; 
the  girls  trussed  up  in  the  finery  of  the  ancient  belles  of 
the  Bracebridge  line,  and  the  striplings  bewhiskered 
with  burnt  cork,  and  gravely  clad  in  broad  skirts, 
hanging  sleeves,  and  full-bottomed  wigs,  to  represent 
the  character  of  Roast  Beef,  Plum  Pudding,  and  other 
worthies  celebrated  in  ancient  maskings.  The  whole 
was  under  the  control  of  the  Oxonian,  in  the  appro- 
priate character  of  Misrule;  and  I  observed  that  he 
exercised  rather  a  mischievous  sway  with  his  wand 
over  the  smallest  personages  of  the  pageant. 

The  irruption  of  this  motley  crew,  with  beat  of 
drum,  according  to  ancient  custom,  was  the  consum- 
mation of  uproar  and  merriment.  Master  Simon 
covered  himself  with  glory  by  the  stateliness  with 
which,  as  Ancient  Christmas,  he  walked  a  minuet  with 
the  peerless,  though  giggling,  Dame  Mince  Pie.  It 
was  followed  by  a  dance  of  all  the  characters,  which 
from  its  medley  of  costtunes,  seemed  as  though  the  old 
family  portraits  had  skipped  down  from  their  frames 

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THE  CHRISTMAS  DINNER  337. 

to  join  in  the  sport.  Different  centuries  were  figuring 
at  cross  hands  and  right  and  left;  the  dark  ages  were 
cutting  pirouettes  and  rigadoons;  and  the  days  of 
Queen  Bess  jigging  merrily  down  the  middle,  through 
a  line  of  succeeding  generations. 

The  worthy  squire  contemplated  these  fantastic 
sports,  and  this  resurrection  of  his  old  wardrobe,  with 
the  simple  relish  of  childish  delight.  He  stood 
chuckling  and  rubbing  his  hands,  and  scarcely  hearing 
a  word  the  parson  said,  notwithstanding  that  the 
latter  was  discoursing  most  authentically  on  the 
ancient  and  stately  dance  at  the  Paon,  or  peacock, 
from  which  he  conceived  the  minuet  to  be  derived.* 
For  my  part,  I  was  in  a  continual  excitement  from  the 
varied  scenes  of  whim  and  innocent  gayety  passing 
before  me.  It  was  inspiring  to  see  wild-eyed  froUc 
and  warm-hearted  hospitality  breaking  out  from 
among  the  chills  and  glooms  of  winter,  and  old  age 
throwing  off  his  apathy,  and  catching  once  more  the 
freshness  of  youthful  enjoyment.  I  felt  also  an  inter- 
est in  the  scene,  from  the  consideration  that  these 
fleeting  customs  were  posting  fast  into  oblivion,  and 
that  this  was,  perhaps,  the  only  family  in  England  in 
which   the  whole  of  them  was   still   punctiliously 

♦  Sir  John  Haw^ns,  speaking  of  the  dance  called  the  Pavon, 
from  pavo,  a  peacock,  says:  "  It  is  a  grave  and  majestic  dance;  the 
method  of  dancing  it  anciently  was  by  gentlemen  dressed  with 
caps  and  swords,  by  those  of  the  long  robe  in  their  gowns,  by  the 
peers  in  their  mantles,  and  by  the  ladies  in  gowns  with  long  trains, 
the  motion  whereof,  in  dancing,  resembles  that  of  a  peacock.  "-— 
History  of  Music 
aj 

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338  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

observed.  There  was  a  quaintness,  too,  mingled  with 
all  this  revehy,  that  gave  it  a  peculiar  zest:  it  was 
suited  to  the  time  and  place;  and  as  the  old  manor- 
house  almost  reeled  with  mirth  and  wassail,  it  seemed 
echoing  back  the  joviaUty  of  long  departed  years.* 

But  enough  of  Christmas  and  its  gambols;  it  is  time 
for  me  to  pause  in  this  garrulity.  Methinks  I  hear  the 
questions  asked  by  my  graver  readers,  ''To  what  pur- 
pose is  all  this — ^how  is  the  world  to  be  made  wiser  by 
this  talk?"  Alas!  is  there  not  wisdom  enough  extant 
for  the  instruction  of  the  world?  And  if  not,  are  there 
not  thousands  of  abler  pens  laboring  for  its  improve 
ment?  It  is  so  much  pleasanter  to  please  than  to 
instruct — to  play  the  companion  rather  than  the 
preceptor. 

What,  after  all,  is  the  mite  of  wisdom  that  I  could 
throw  into  the  mass  of  knowledge;  or  how  am  I  sure 
that  my  sagest  deductions  may  be  safe  guides  for  the 
opinions  of  others?  But  in  writing  to  amuse,  if  I  fail, 
the  only  evil  is  in  my  own  disappointment.  If, 
however,  I  can  by  any  lucky  chance,  in  these  days  of 
evil,  rub  out  one  wrinkle  from  the  brow  of  care,  or 
beguile  the  heavy  heart  of  one  moment  of  sorrow;  if  I 

♦  At  the  time  of  the  first  publication  of  this  paper,  the  picture 
of  an  old-fashioned  Christmas  in  the  country  was  pronounced  by 
some  as  out  of  date.  The  author  had  afterwards  an  opportunity 
of  witnessing  almost  all  the  customs  above  described,  existing  in 
unexpected  vigor  in  the  skirts  of  Derbyshire  and  Yorkshire,  where 
he  passed  the  Christmas  holidays.  The  reader  will  find  some 
notice  of  them  in  the  author's  account  of  his  sojourn  at  Newstead 
Abbey. 

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THE  CHRISTMAS  DINNER  339 

can  now  and  then  penetrate  through  the  gathering 
film  of  misanthropy,  prompt  a  benevolent  view  of 
htmian  nature,  and  make  my  reader  more  in  good 
humor  with  his  fellow  beings  and  himself,  surely, 
surely,  I  shall  not  then  have  written  entirely  in  vain. 


yGoogk 


LONDON  ANTIQUES 

1  do  walk 

Methinks  like  Guido  Vaux,  with  my  dark  lanthom. 
Stealing  to  set  the  town  o*  fire;  i*  th*  country 
I  should  be  taken  for  William  o*  the  Wisp, 
Or  Robin  Goodfellow. 

Fletcher. 

I  AM  somewhat  of  an  antiquity  htinter,  and  am  fond 
of  exploring  London  in  quest  of  the  relics  of  old  times. 
These  are  principally  to  be  fotmd  in  the  depths  of  the 
city,  swallowed  up  and  almost  lost  in  a  wilderness  of 
brick  and  mortar;  but  deriving  poetical  and  romantic 
interest  from  the  commonplace  prosaic  world  around 
them.  I  was  struck  with  an  instance  of  the  kind  in  the 
course  of  a  recent  summer  ramble  into  the  city;  for  the 
city  is  only  to  be  explored  to  advantage  in  stunmer 
time,  when  free  from  the  smoke  and  fog,  and  rain  and 
mud  of  winter.  I  had  been  buffeting  for  some  time 
against  the  current  of  population  setting  through 
Fleet  Street.  The  warm  weather  had  unstrung  my 
nerves,  and  made  me  sensitive  to  every  jar  and  jostle 
and  discordant  sotmd.  The  flesh  was  weary,  the 
spirit  faint,  and  I  was  getting  out  of  humor  with  the 
bustling  busy  throng  through  which  I  had  to  struggle, 
when  in  a  fit  of  desperation  I  tore  my  way  through  the 
crowd,  pltmged  into  a  by  lane,  and,  after  passing 

'KAO 

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LONDON  ANTIQUES  341 

through  several  obsciire  nooks  and  angles,  emerged 
into  a  quaint  and  quiet  court  with  a  grass-plot  in  the 
centre,  overhung  by  elms,  and  kept  perpetually  fresh 
and  green  by  a  fotmtain  with  its  sparkling  jet  of  water, 
A  student  with  book  in  hand  was  seated  on  a  stone 
bench,  partly  reading,  partly  meditating  on  the  move- 
ments of  two  or  three  trim  nursery  maids  with  their 
infant  charges. 

I  was  like  an  Arab,  who  had  suddenly  come  upon  an 
oasis  amid  the  panting  sterility  of  the  desert.  By 
degrees  the  quiet  and  coolness  of  the  place  soothed  my 
nerves  and  refreshed  my  spirit.  I  pursued  my  walk, 
and  came,  hard  by,  to  a  very  ancient  chapel,  with  a 
low-browed  Saxon  portal  of  massive  and  rich  archi- 
tecture. The  interior  was  circular  and  lofty,  and 
lighted  from  above.  Arotmd  were  monumental  tombs 
of  ancient  date,  on  which  were  extended  the  marble 
effigies  of  warriors  in  armor.  Some  had  the  hands 
devoutly  crossed  upon  the  breast;  others  grasped  the 
pommel  of  the  sword,  menacing  hostility  even  in  the 
tomb! — ^while  the  crossed  legs  of  several  indicated 
soldiers  of  the  Faith  who  had  been  on  crusades  to  the 
Holy  Land. 

I  was,  in  fact,  in  the  chapel  of  the  Knights  Templars,  * 
strangely  situated  in  the  very  centre  of  sordid  traffic; 
and  I  do  not  know  a  more  impressive  lesson  for  the 
man  of  the  world  than  thus  suddenly  to  turn  aside 
from  the  highway  of  busy  money-seeking  life,  and  sit 
down  among  these  shadowy  sepulchres,  where  aU  is 
twilight,  dust,  and  forgetfulness. 

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342  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

In  a  subsequent  tour  of  observation,  I  encountered 
another  of  these  relics  of  a  ''foregone  world**  locked  up 
in  the  heart  of  the  city.  I  had  been  wandering  for 
some  time  through  dull  monotonous  streets,  destitute 
of  anything  to  strike  the  eye  or  excite  the  imagination, 
when  I  beheld  before  me  a  Gothic  gateway  of  moulder- 
ing antiquity.  It  opened  into  a  spacious  quadrangle 
forming  the  court-yard  of  a  stately  Gothic  pile,  the 
portal  of  which  stood  invitingly  open. 

It  was  apparently  a  public  edifice,  and  as  I  was  an- 
tiquity htmting,  I  venttu-ed  in,  though  with  dubious 
steps.  Meeting  no  one  either  to  oppose  or  rebuke  my 
intrusion,  I  continued  on  tmtil  I  fotmd  myself  in  a 
great  hall,  with  a  lofty  arched  roof  and  oaken  gallery, 
all  of  Gothic  architecture.  At  one  end  of  the  hall  was 
an  enormous  fireplace,  with  wooden  settles  on  each 
side;  at  the  other  end  was  a  raised  platform,  or  dais, 
the  seat  of  state,  above  which  was  the  portrait  of  a  man 
in  antique  garb,  with  a  long  robe,  a  ruff,  and  a  vener- 
able gray  beard. 

The  whole  establishment  had  an  air  of  monastic 
quiet  and  seclusion,  and  what  gave  it  a  mysterious 
charm  was,  that  I  had  not  met  with  a  htunan  being 
since  I  had  passed  the  threshold. 

Encouraged  by  this  loneliness,  I  seated  myself  in  a 
recess  of  a  large  bow  window,  which  admitted  a  broad 
flood  of  yellow  sunshine,  checkered  here  and  there  by 
tints  from  panes  of  colored  glass;  while  an  open  case- 
ment let  in  the  soft  summer  air.  Here,  leaning  my 
head  on  my  hand,  and  my  arm  on  an  old  oaken  table, 

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LONDON  ANTIQUES  343 

I  iu  Julged  in  a  sort  of  reverie  about  what  might  have 
been  the  ancient  uses  of  this  edifice.  It  had  evidently 
been  of  monastic  origin ;  perhaps  one  of  those  collegiate 
establishments  built  of  yore  for  the  promotion  of 
learning,  where  the  patient  monk,  in  the  ample  soli- 
tude of  the  cloister,  added  page  to  page  and  volimie  to 
voltune,  emulating  in  the  productions  of  his  brain  the 
magnitude  of  the  pile  he  inhabited. 

As  I  was  seated  in  this  musing  mood,  a  small 
panelled  door  in  an  arch  at  the  upper  end  of  the  hall 
was  opened,  and  a  ntmiber  of  gray-headed  old  men, 
dad  in  long  black  cloaks,  came  forth  one  by  one;  pro- 
ceeding in  that  manner  through  the  hall,  without 
uttering  a  word,  each  turning  a  pale  face  on  me  as  he 
passed,  and  disappearing  through  a  door  at  the  lower 
end. 

I  was  singularly  struck  with  their  appearance;  their 
black  cloaks  and  antiquated  air  comported  with  the 
style  of  this  most  venerable  and  mysterious  pile.  It 
was  as  if  the  ghosts  of  the  departed  years,  about  which 
I  had  been  musing,  were  passing  in  review  before  me. 
Pleasing  myself  with  such  fancies,  I  set  out,  in  the 
spirit  of  romance,  to  explore  what  I  pictured  to  myself 
a  realm  of  shadows,  existing  in  the  very  centre  of  sub- 
stantial realities. 

My  ramble  led  me  through  a  labyrinth  of  interior 
courts,  and  corridors,  and  dilapidated  cloisters,  for  the 
main  edifice  had  many  additions  and  dependencies, 
built  at  various  times  and  in  various  styles;  in  one 
open  space  a  ntmiber  of  boys,  who  evidently  belonged 

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,344  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

to  the  establishment,  were  at  their  sports;  but  every- 
where I  observed  those  mysterious  old  gray  men  in 
black  mantles,  sometimes  satmtering  alone,  some- 
times conversing  in  groups;  they  appeared  to  be  the 
pervading  genii  of  the  place.  I  now  called  to  mind 
what  I  had  read  of  certain  colleges  in  old  times,  where 
judicial  astrology,  geomancy,  necromancy,  and  other 
forbidden  and  magical  sciences  were  taught.  Was  this 
an  estabhshment  of  the  kind,  and  were  these  black- 
cloaked  old  men  really  professors  of  the  black  art? 

These  surmises  were  passing  through  my  mind  as  my 
eye  glanced  into  a  chamber,  htmg  round  with  all  kinds 
of  strange  and  tmcouth  objects;  implements  of  savage 
warfare;  strange  idols  and  stuffed  alligators;  bottled 
serpents  and  monsters  decorated  the  mantelpiece; 
while  on  the  high  tester  of  an  old-fashioned  bedstead 
grinned  a  human  skull,  flanked  on  each  side  by  a  dried 
cat. 

I  approached  to  regard  more  narrowly  this  mystic 
chamber,  which  seemed  a  fitting  laboratory  for  a  necro- 
mancer, when  I  was  startled  at  beholding  a  htunan 
countenance  staring  at  me  from  a  dusky  comer.  It 
was  that  of  a  small,  shrivelled  old  man,  with  thin 
cheeks,  bright  eyes,  and  gray  wiry  projecting  eye- 
brows. I  at  first  doubted  whether  it  were  not  a 
munmiy  curiously  preserved,  but  it  moved,  and  I  saw 
that  it  was  alive.  It  was  another  of  those  black- 
cloaked  old  men,  and,  as  I  regarded  his  quaint 
physiognomy,  his  obsolete  garb,  and  the  hideous  and 
.  sinister  objects  by  which  he  was  surrotmded,  I  began 


yGoogk 


LONDON  ANTIQUES  345 

to  persuade  myself  that  I  had  come  upon  the  arch 
mago,  who  ruled  over  this  magical  fraternity. 

Seeing  me  pausing  before  the  door,  he  rose  and 
invited  me  to  enter.  I  obeyed,  with  singular  hardi- 
hood, for  how  did  I  know  whether  a  wave  of  his  wand 
might  not  metamorphose  me  into  some  strange  mon- 
ster, or  conjure  me  into  one  of  the  bottles  on  his 
mantelpiece?  He  proved,  however,  to  be  anything  but 
a  conjurer,  and  his  simple  garrulity  soon  dispelled  all 
the  magic  and  mystery  with  which  I  had  enveloped  this 
antiquated  pile  and  its  no  less  antiquated  inhabitants. 

It  appeared  that  I  had  made  my  way  into  the  centre 
of  an  ancient  asylum  for  superaimuated  tradesmen 
and  decayed  householders,  with  which  was  connected 
a  school  for  a  limited  number  of  boys.  It  was  fotmded 
upwards  of  two  centtiries  since  on  an  old  monastic  es- 
tablishment, and  retained  somewhat  of  the  conventual 
air  and  character.  The  shadowy  line  of  old  men  in 
black  mantles  who  had  passed  before  me  in  the  hall, 
and  whom  I  had  elevated  into  magi,  turned  out  to  be 
the  pensioners  returning  from  morning  service  in  the 
chapel. 

John  Hallum,  the  Uttle  collector  of  curiosities,  whom 
I  had  made  the  arch  magician,  had  been  for  six  years  a 
resident  of  the  place,  and  had  decorated  this  final  nest- 
Ung-place  of  his  old  age  with  relics  and  rarities  picked 
up  in  the  course  of  his  life.  According  to  his  own 
accotmt  he  had  been  somewhat  of  a  traveller;  having 
been  once  in  France,  and  very  near  making  a  visit  to 
Holland.    He  regretted  not  having  visited  the  latter 


yGoogk 


346  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

cotintry,  "as  then  he  might  have  said  he  had  been 
there." — ^He  was  evidently  a  traveller  of  the  simplest 
kind. 

He  was  aristocratical  too  in  his  notions;  keeping 
aloof,  as  I  fotmd,  from  the  ordinary  nm  of  pensioners. 
His  chief  associates  were  a  blind  man  who  spoke  Latin 
and  Greek,  of  both  which  languages  Hallttm  was  pro- 
foundly ignorant;  and  a  broken-down  gentleman  who 
had  nm  through  a  forttme  of  forty  thousand  potmds, 
left  him  by  his  father,  and  ten  thousand  pounds,  the 
marriage  portion  of  his  wife.  Little  Halltun  seemed 
to  consider  it  an  indubitable  sign  of  gentle  blood  as 
well  as  of  lofty  spirit  to  be  able  to  squander  such 
enormous  sums. 

P.  S.  The  picturesque  remnant  of  old  times  into 
which  I  have  thus  beguiled  the  reader  is  what  is  called 
the  Charter  House, '  originally  the  Chartreuse.  It  was 
fotmded  in  i6i  i ,  on  the  remains  of  an  ancient  convent, 
by  Sir  Thomas  Sutton,  being  one  of  those  noble  chari- 
ties set  on  foot  by  individual  munificence,  and  kept  up 
with  the  quaintness  and  sanctity  of  ancient  times 
amidst  the  modem  changes  and  innovations  of  Lon- 
don. Here  eighty  broken-down  men,  who  have  seen 
better  days,  are  provided,  in  their  old  age,  with  food, 
clothing,  fuel,  and  a  yearly  allowance  for  private 
expenses.  They  dine  together,  as  did  the  monks  of 
old,  in  the  hall  which  had  been  the  refectory  of  the 
original  convent.  Attached  to  the  establishment  is  a 
school  for  forty-four  boys. 


yGoogk 


LONDON  ANTIQUES  347 

Stow,  whose  work  I  have  consulted  on  the  subject, 
speaking  of  the  obligations  of  the  gray-headed  pension- 
ers, says:  ''They  are  not  to  intermeddle  with  any  busi- 
ness touching  the  affairs  of  the  hospital,  but  to  attend 
only  to  the  service  of  God,  and  take  thankfully  what  is 
provided  for  them,  without  muttering,  murmuring,  or 
grudging.  None  to  wear  weapon,  long  hair,  colored 
boots,  spurs  or  colored  shoes,  feathers  in  their  hats,  or 
any  ruffian-like  or  imseemly  apparel,  but  such  as  be- 
comes hospital  men  to  wear."  "And  in  truth,"  adds 
Stow,  "happy  are  they  that  are  so  taken  from  the 
cares  and  sorrows  of  the  world,  and  fixed  in  so  good  a 
place  as  these  old  men  are,  having  nothing  to  care  for, 
but  the  good  of  their  souls,  to  serve  God  and  to  Uve  in 
brotherly  love." 

For  the  amusement  of  such  as  have  been  interested 
by  the  preceding  sketch,  taken  down  from  my  own 
observation,  and  who  may  wish  to  know  a  little  more 
about  the  mysteries  of  London,  I  subjoin  a  modictun 
of  local  history,  put  into  my  hands  by  an  odd-looking 
old  gentleman  in  a  small  brown  wig  and  a  snuff-colored 
coat,  with  whom  I  became  acquainted  shortly  after  my 
visit  to  the  Charter  House.  I  confess  I  was  a  little 
dubious  at  first,  whether  it  was  not  one  of  those 
apocryphal  tales  often  passed  off  upon  inquiring 
travellers  like  myself;  and  which  have  brought  our 
general  character  for  veracity  into  such  tmmerited 
reproach.  On  making  proper  inquiries,  however,  I 
have  received  the  most  satisfactory  assurances  of  the 

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348  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

author's  probity;  and,  indeed,  have  been  told  that  he 
is  actually  engaged  in  a  full  and  particular  account  of 
the  very  interesting  region  in  which  he  resides;  of 
which  the  following  may  be  considered  merely  as  a 
foretaste. 


yGoogk 


LITTLE    BRITAIN 

What  I  write  is  most  true  ...  I  have  a  whole  booke  of  casee 
lying  by  me  which  if  I  should  sette  foorth,  some  grave  auntients 
(within  the  hearing  of  Bow  bell)  would  be  out  of  charity  with  me. 

Nashe. 

In  the  centre  of  the  great  city  of  London  lies  a  smaH 
neighborhood,  consisting  of  a  cluster  of  narrow  streets 
and  courts,  of  very  venerable  and  debilitated  houses, 
which  goes  by  the  name  of  Little  Britain.  Christ 
Church  School  and  St.  Bartholomew's  Hospital  bound 
it  on  the  west ;  Smithfield  and  Long  Lane  on  the  north; 
Aldersgate  Street,  like  an  arm  of  the  sea,  divides  it 
from  the  eastern  part  of  the  city;  whilst  the  yawning: 
gulf  of  Bull-and-Mouth  Street  separates  it  from 
Butcher  Lane,  and  the  regions  of  Newgate.  Over 
this  little  territory,  thus  bounded  and  designated,  the 
great  dome  of  St.  Paul's,  swelling  above  the  interven- 
ing houses  of  Paternoster  Row,  Amen  Comer,  and 
Ave  Maria  Lane,  looks  down  with  an  air  of  motherly 
protection. 

This  quarter  derives  its  appellation  from  having 
been,  in  ancient  times,  the  residence  of  the  Dukes  of 
Brittany.'  As  London  increased,  however,  rank  and 
fashion  rolled  off  to  the  west,  and  trade,  creeping  on  at 
their  heels,  took  possession  of  their  deserted  abodes. 
For  some  time  Little  Britain  became  the  great  mart  of 

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350  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

learning,  and  was  peopled  by  the  busy  and  prolific  race 
of  booksellers;  these  also  gradually  deserted  it,  and, 
emigrating  beyond  the  great  strait  of  Newgate  Street, 
settled  down  in  Paternoster  Row  and  St.  Paul's 
Church- Yard,  where  they  continue  to  increase  and 
multiply  even  at  the  present  day. 

But  though  thus  fallen  into  decline,  Little  Britain 
still  bears  traces  of  its  former  splendor.  There  are 
several  houses  ready  to  tumble  down,  the  fronts  of 
which  are  magnificently  enriched  with  old  oaken  carv- 
ings of  hideous  faces,  unknown  birds,  beasts,  and 
fishes:  and  fruits  and  flowers  which  it  would  perplex  a 
naturalist  to  classify.  There  are  also,  in  Aldersgate 
Street,  certain  remains  of  what  were  once  spacious  and 
lordly  mansions,  but  which  have  in  latter  days  been 
subdivided  into  several  tenements.  Here  may  often 
be  fotmd  the  family  of  a  petty  tradesman,  with  its 
trtunpery  furniture,  burrowing  among  the  relics  of 
antiquated  finery,  in  great  rambling  time-stained 
apartments,  with  fretted  ceilings,  gilded  cornices,  and 
enormous  marble  fireplaces.  The  lanes  and  courts 
also  contain  many  smaller  houses,  not  on  so  grand  a 
scale,  but,  like  your  small  ancient  gentry,  sturdily 
maintaining  their  claims  to  equal  antiquity.  These 
have  their  gable  ends  to  the  street ;  great  bow  windows, 
with  diamond  panes  set  in  lead,  grotesque  carvings, 
and  low  arched  door-ways.* 

♦  It  is  evident  that  the  author  of  this  interesting  communication 
has  included,  in  his  general  title  of  Little  Britain,  many  of  those 
little  lanes  and  courts  that  belong  immediately  to  Cloth  Fair. 

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LITTLE  BRITAIN  351 

In  this  most  venerable  and  sheltered  little  nest  have 
I  passed  several  qtiiet  years  of  existence,  comfortably 
lodged  in  the  second  floor  of  one  of  the  smallest  but 
oldest  edifices.  My  sitting-room  is  an  old  wainscoted 
chamber,  with  small  panels,  and  set  off  with  a  miscel- 
laneous array  of  furniture.  I  have  a  particular  respect 
for  three  or  four  high-backed  claw-footed  chairs, 
covered  with  tarnished  brocade,  which  bear  the  marks 
of  having  seen  better  days,  and  have  doubtless  figured 
in  some  of  the  old  palaces  of  Little  Britain.  They 
seem  to  me  to  keep  together,  and  to  look  down  with 
sovereign  contempt  upon  their  leathern-bottomed 
neighbors;  as  I  have  seen  decayed  gentry  carry  a  high 
head  among  the  plebeian  society  with  which  they 
were  reduced  to  associate.  The  whole  front  of  my 
sitting-room  is  taken  up  with  a  bow  window;  on  the 
panes  of  which  are  recorded  the  names  of  previous 
occupants  for  many  generations,  mingled  with  scraps 
of  very  indifferent  gentleman-like  poetry,  written  in 
characters  which  I  can  scarcely  decipher,  and  which 
extol  the  charms  of  many  a  beauty  of  Little  Britain, 
who  has  long,  long  since  bloomed,  faded,  and  passed 
away.  As  I  am  an  idle  personage,  with  no  apparent 
occupation,  and  pay  my  bill  regularly  every  week,  I  am 
looked  upon  as  the  only  independent  gentleman  of  the 
neighborhood;  and,  being  curious  to  learn  the  internal 
state  of  a  community  so  apparently  shut  up  within 
itself,  I  have  managed  to  work  my  way  into  aU  the 
concerns  and  secrets  of  the  place. 

Little  Britain  may  truly  be  called  the  heart's  core  of 

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352  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

the  city;  the  stronghold  of  true  John  Bullism.  It  is  a 
fragment  of  London  as  it  was  in  its  better  days,  with 
its  antiquated  folks  and  fashions.  Here  flotirish  in 
great  preservation  many  of  the  holiday  games  and 
customs  of  yore.  The  inhabitants  most  religiously  eat 
pancakes  on  Shrove  Tuesday,^  hot-cross  btms  on  Good 
Friday,  and  roast  goose  at  Michaelmas;  they  send 
love-letters  on  Valentine's  Day,  bum  the  pope  on  the 
fifth  of  November,  and  kiss  all  the  girls  under  the 
mistletoe  at  Christmas.  Roast  beef  and  pltmi- 
pudding  are  also  held  in  superstitious  veneration,  and 
port  and  sherry  maintain  their  grounds  as  the  only 
true  English  wines;  aU  others  being  considered  vile 
outlandish  beverages. 

Little  Britain  has  its  long  catalogue  of  city  wonders, 
which  its  inhabitants  consider  the  wonders  of  the 
world;  such  as  the  great  bell  of  St.  Paul's,  which  sours 
aU  the  beer  when  it  tolls;  the  figures  that  strike  the" 
hours  at  St.  Dunstan's  clock;  the  Monument;  the  lions 
in  the  Tower:*  and  the  wooden  giants^  in  Guildhall. 
They  still  believe  in  dreams  and  forttme-teUing,  and  an 
old  woman  that  lives  in  BuU-and-Mouth  Street  makes 
a  tolerable  subsistence  by  detecting  stolen  goods,  and 
promising  the  girls  good  husbands.  They  are  apt  to 
be  rendered  uncomfortable  by  comets  and  eclipses; 
and  if  a  dog  howls  dolefully  at  night,  it  is  looked  upon 
as  a  sure  sign  of  a  death  in  the  place.  There  are  even 
many  ghost  stories  current,  particularly  concerning 
the  old  mansion-houses;  in  several  of  which  it  is  said 
strange  sights  are  sometimes  seen.    Lords  and  ladies. 

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LITTLE  BRITAIN  353. 

the  former  in  full-bottomed  wigs,  hanging  sleeves,  and 
swords,  the  latter  in  lappets,  stays,  hoops,  and  brocade, 
have  been  seen  walking  up  and  down  the  great  waste 
chambers,  on  moonlight  nights;  and  are  supposed  to  be 
the  shades  of  the  ancient  proprietors  in  their  court- 
dresses. 

Little  Britain  has  likewise  its  sages  and  great  men. 
One  of  the  most  important  of  the  former  is  a  tall,  dry 
old  gentleman,  of  the  name  of  Skryme,  who  keeps  a 
small  apothecary's  shop.  He  has  a  cadaverous 
cotmtenance,  full  of  cavities  and  projections;  with  a 
brown  circle  round  each  eye,  like  a  pair  of  horn  spec- 
tacles. He  is  much  thought  of  by  the  old  women, 
who  consider  him  as  a  kind  of  conjurer,  because  he  has 
two  or  three  stuffed  alligators  hanging  up  in  his  shop, 
and  several  snakes  in  bottles.  He  is  a  great  reader  of 
almanacs  and  newspapers,  and  is  much  given  to  pore 
over  alarming  accounts  of  plots,  conspiracies,  fires, 
earthquakes,  and  volcanic  eruptions:  wxiich  last 
phenomena  he  considers  as  signs  of  the  times.  He  has 
always  some  dismal  tale  of  the  kind  to  deal  out  to  his 
customers,  with  their  doses;  and  thus  at  the  same 
time  puts  both  soul  and  body  into  an  uproar.  He  is  a 
great  believer  in  omens  and  predictions;  and  has  the 
prophecies  of  Robert  Nixon  and  Mother  Shipton'  by 
heart.  No  man  can  make  so  much  out  of  an  eclipse, 
or  even  an  tmusuaUy  dark  day;  and  he  shook  the  tail  of 
the  last  comet  over  the  heads  of  his  customers  and 
disciples  tmtil  they  were  nearly  frightened  out  of  their 
wits.  He  has  lately  got  hold  of  a  popular  legend  or 
93 

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354  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

prophecy,  on  which  he  has  been  tmnsually  eloquent. 
There  has  been  a  saying  current  among  the  ancient 
sibyls,  who  treasure  up  these  things,  that  when  the 
grasshopper  on  the  top  of  the  Exchange  shook  hands 
with  the  dragon  on  the  top  of  Bow  Church  steeple, 
fearful  events  would  take  place.  This  strange  con- 
junction, it  seems,  has  as  strangely  come  to  pass.  The 
same  architect  has  been  engaged  lately  on  the  repairs 
of  the  cupola  of  the  Exchange,  and  the  steeple  of  Bow 
Church;  and,  fearful  to  relate,  the  dragon  and  the 
:grasshopper  actually  lie,  cheek  by  jole,  in  the  yard  of 
lis  work-shop. 

''Others,*'  as  Mr.  Sloyme  is  accustomed  to  say, 
^*may  go  star-gazing,  and  look  for  conjtmctions  in  the 
leavens,  but  here  is  a  conjimction  on  the  earth,  near 
;at  home,  and  under  our  own  eyes,  which  surpasses  all 
-the  signs  and  calculations  of  astrologers."  Since 
-these  portentous  weather-cocks  have  thus  laid  their 
leads  together,  wonderful  events  had  already  oc- 
^curred.  The  good  old  king,  notwithstanding  that  he 
had  lived  eighty-two  years,  had  all  at  once  given  up 
the  ghost;  another  king  had  motmted  the  throne;  a 
Toyal  duke  had  died  suddenly — another,  in  France, 
had  been  murdered;  there  had  been  radical  meetings^ 
dn  aU  parts  of  the  kingdom;  the  bloody  scenes  at  Man- 
<jhester;^  the  great  plot  in  Cato  Street;^ — and,  above 
iall,  the  Queen  had  returned  to  England!  All  these 
^sinister  events  are  recounted  by  Mr.  Sloyme,  with  a 
rmysterious  look,  and  a  dismal  shake  of  the  head;  and 
3being  taken  with  his  drugs,  and  associated  in  the 

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LITTLE  BRITAIN  355 

minds  of  his  auditors  with  sttiffed  sea-monsters, 
bottled  serpents,  and  his  own  visage,  which  is  a  title- 
page  of  tribulation,  they  have  spread  great  gloom 
through  the  minds  of  the  people  of  Little  Britain. 
They  shake  their  heads  whenever  they  go  by  Bow 
Church,  and  observe  that  they  never  expected  any 
good  to  come  of  taking  down  that  steeple,  which  in  old 
times  told  nothing  but  glad  tidings,  as  the  history  of 
Whittington  and  his  Cat^  bears  witness. 

The  rival  oracle  of  Little  Britain  is  a  substantial 
cheese-monger,  who  lives  in  a  fragment  of  one  of  the 
old  family  mansions,  and  is  as  magnificently  lodged  as 
a  rotmd-bellied  mite  in  the  midst  of  one  of  his  own 
Cheshires.  Indeed  he  is  a  man  of  no  UttlQ  standing 
and  importance;  and  his  renown  extends  through 
Huggin  Lane,  and  Lad  Lane,  and  even  unto  Alder- 
manbury.  His  opinion  is  very  much  taken  in  affairs 
of  state,  having  read  the  Sunday  papers  for  the  last 
half  century,  together  with  the  Gentleman* s  Maga- 
zine, Rapin*s  History  of  England,  and  the  Naval 
Chronicle,  His  head  is  stored  with  invaluable 
maxims  which  have  borne  the  test  of  time  and  use  for 
centuries.  It  is  his  firm  opinion  that  **it  is  a  moral 
impossible,  **  so  long  as  England  is  true  to  herself,  that 
anything  can  shake  her :  and  he  has  much  to  say  on  the 
subject  of  the  national  debt;  which,  somehow  or  other, 
he  proves  to  be  a  great  national  bulwark  and  blessing. 
He  passed  the  greater  part  of  his  life  in  the  purlieus  of 
Little  Britain,  tmtil  of  late  years,  when,  having  become 
rich,  and  grown  into  the  dignity  of  a  Sunday  cane,  he 

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356  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

begins  to  take  his  pleasure  and  see  the  world.  He  has 
therefore  made  several  excursions  to  Hampstead, 
Highgate,  and  other  neighboring  towns,  where  he  has 
passed  whole  afternoons  in  looking  back  upon  the 
metropoUs  through  a  telescope,  and  endeavoring  to 
descry  the  steeple  of  St.  Bartholomew's.  Not  a  stage- 
coachman  of  Bull-and-Mouth  Street  but  touches  his 
hat  as  he  passes;  and  he  is  considered  quite  a  patron  at 
the  coach-office  of  the  Goose  and  Gridiron,  St.  Paul's 
Churchyard.  His  family  have  been  very  urgent  for 
him  to  make  an  expedition  to  Margate,  but  he  has 
great  doubts  of  those  new  gimcracks,  the  steamboats, 
and  indeed  thinks  himself  too  advanced  in  Ufe  to 
tindertakq  sea- voyages. 

Little  Britain  has  occasionally  its  factions  and  divi- 
sions, and  party  spirit  ran  very  high  at.  one  time  in  con- 
sequence of  two  rival  "Burial  Societies'*  being  set  up 
in  the  place.  One  held  its  meeting  at  the  Swan  and 
Horse  Shoe,  and  was  patronized  by  the  cheese-monger; 
the  other  at  the  Cock  and  Crown,  under  the  auspices  of 
the  apothecary :  it  is  needless  to  say  that  the  latter  was 
the  most  flourishing.  I  have  passed  an  evening  or 
two  at  each,  and  have  acquired  much  valuable  infor- 
mation, as  to  the  best  mode  of  being  buried,  the 
comparative  merits  of  churchyards,  together  with 
divers  hints  on  the  subject  of  patent-iron  coffins.  I 
have  heard  the  question  discussed  in  all  its  bearings  as 
to  the  legaUty  of  prohibiting  the  latter  on  account 
of  their  durability.  The  feuds  occasioned  by  these 
societies  have  happily  died  of  late;  but  they  were  for  a 

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LITTLE  BRITAIN  357 

long  time  prevailing  themes  of  controversy,  the  people 
of  Little  Britain  being  extremely  solicitous  of  ftine- 
real  honors  and  of  lying  comfortably  in  their  graves. 

Besides  these  two  ftineral  societies  there  is  a  third  of 
quite  a  different  cast,  which  tends  to  throw  the  sun- 
shine of  good-htimor  over  the  whole  neighborhood.  It 
meets  once  a  week  at  a  little  old-fashioned  house,  kept 
by  a  jolly  publican  of  the  name  of  Wagstaflf,  and 
bearing  for  insignia  a  resplendent  half-moon,  with  a 
most  seductive  bunch  of  grapes.  The  old  edifice  is 
covered  with  inscriptions  to  catch  the  eye  of  the 
thirsty  wayfarer;  such  as  "Trueman,  Hanbury,  and 
Co.'s  Entire,"  ''Wine,  Rum,  and  Brandy  Vaults," 
*'01d  Tom,  Rtim  and  Compounds,  etc."  This  indeed 
has  been  a  temple  of  Bacchus  and  Momus  from  time 
immemorial.  It  has  always  been  in  the  family  of  the 
Wagstaflfs,  so  that  its  history  is  tolerably  preserved  by 
the  present  landlord.  It  was  much  frequented  by  the 
gallants  and  cavalieros  of  the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  and 
was  looked  into  now  and  then  by  the  wits  of  Charles 
the  Second's  day.  But  what  WagstafI  principally 
prides  himself  upon  is,  that  Henry  the  Eighth,  in  one 
of  his  nocturnal  rambles,  broke  the  head  of  one  of  his 
ancestors  with  his  famous  walking-staff.  This,  how- 
ever, is  considered  as  rather  a  dubious  and  vainglorious 
boast  of  the  landlord. 

The  club  which  now  holds  its  weekly  sessions  here 
goes  by  the  name  of  **The  Roaring  Lads  of  Little 
Britain."  They  abound  in  old  catches,  glees,  and 
choice  stories,  that  are  traditional  in  the  place,  and  not 

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358  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

to  be  met  with  in  any  other  part  of  the  metropoKs. 
There  is  a  mad-cap  undertaker  who  is  inimitable  at  a 
merry  song;  but  the  life  of  the  club,  and  indeed  the 
prime  wit  of  Little  Britain,  is  bully  Wagstaff  himself. 
His  ancestors  were  all  wags  before  him,  and  he  has 
inherited  with  the  inn  a  large  stock  of  songs  and  jokes, 
which  go  with  it  from  generation  to  generation  as  heir- 
looms. He  is  a  dapper  little  fellow,  with  bandy  legs 
and  pot  belly,  a  red  face,  with  a  moist  merry  eye,  and  a 
little  shock  of  gray  hair  behind.  At  the  opening  of 
every  club  night  he  is  called  in  to  sing  his  **  Confession 
of  Faith, "  which  is  the  famous  old  drinking  trowl  from 
Gammer  Gurton*s  Needle.  He  sings  it,  to  be  sure, 
with  many  variations,  as  he  received  it  from  his 
father's  lips;  for  it  has  been  a  standing  favorite  at  the 
Half-Moon  and  Bunch  of  Grapes  ever  since  it  was 
written:  nay,  he  affirms  that  his  predecessors  have 
often  had  the  honor  of  singing  it  before  the  nobiUty 
and  gentry  at  Christmas  mummeries,  when  Little 
Britain  was  in  all  its  glory.* 

♦  As  mine  host  of  the  Half -Moon's  Confession  of  Faith  may  not 
be  familiar  to  the  majority  of  readers,  and  as  it  is  a  specimen  of  the 
current  songs  of  Little  Britain,  I  subjoin  it  in  its  original  orthog- 
raphy. I  would  observe,  that  the  whole  club  always  join  in  the 
chorus  with  a  fearftil  thumping  on  the  table  and  clattering  of 
pewter  pots. 

I  cannot  eate  but  lytle  meate, 

My  stomacke  is  not  good, 
But  sure  I  thinke  that  I  can  drinke 

With  him  that  weares  a  hood. 


yGoogk 


LITTLE  BRITAIN 


359 


It  wotild  do  one's  heart  good  to  hear,  on  a  duh 
night,  the  shouts  of  merriment,  the  snatches  of  song^ 
and  now  and  then  the  choral  bursts  of  half  a  dozen 
discordant  voices,  which  issue  from  this  jovial  man- 
sion. At  such  times  the  street  is  Uned  with  listeners, 
who  enjoy  a  delight  equal  to  that  of  gazing  into  a 
confectioner's  window,  or  snuffing  up  the  steams  of  a 
cook-shop. 

There  are  two  annual  events  which  produce  great 
stir  and  sensation  in  Little  Britain;  these  are  St. 
Bartholomew's  fair,  and  the  Lord  Mayor's  day.' 
During  the  time  of  the  fair,  which  is  held  in  the  adjoin- 
ing regions  of  Smithfield,  there  is  nothine  going  on  but 
gossiping  and  gadding  about.     The  late  quiet  streets 

Though  I  go  bare,  take  ye  no  care, 

I  nothing  am  a  colde, 
I  stuff  my  skyn  so  full  within. 

Of  joly  good  ale  and  olde. 
Chorus,    Backe  and  syde  go  bare,  go  bare, 

Booth  foote  and  hand  go  colde, 
But  belly,  God  send  thee  good  ale  ynoughe 

Whether  it  be  new  or  olde. 

I  have  no  rost,  but  a  nut  brawne  toste, 

And  a  crab  laid  in  the  fyre; 
A  little  breade  shall  do  me  steade. 

Much  breade  I  not  desyre. 
No  frost  nor  snow,  nor  winde,  I  trowe. 

Can  hurte  mee,  if  I  wolde, 
I  am  so  wrapt  and  throwly  lapt 

Of  joly  good  ale  and  olde. 
Chorus,    Backe  and  syde  go  bare,  go  bare,  etc 


yGoogk 


36o 


THE  SKETCH  BOOK 


of  Little  Britain  are  overrun  with  an  irruption  of 
strange  figures  and  faces;  every  tavern  is  a  scene  of 
rout  and  revel.  The  fiddle  and  the  song  are  heard 
from  the  tap-room,  morning,  noon,  and  night;  and  at 
each  window  may  be  seen  some  group  of  boon  com- 
panions, with  half-shut  eyes,  hats  on  one  side,  pipe  in 
mouth,  and  tankard  in  hand,  fondUng,  and  prosing, 
and  singing  maudlin  songs  over  their  liquor.  Even 
the  sober  deconun  of  private  families,  which  I  must 
say  is  rigidly  kept  up  at  other  times  among  my  neigh- 
bors, is  no  proof  against  this  Saturnalia.  There  is  no 
such  thing  as  keeping  maid-servants  within  doors. 
Their  brains  are  absolutely  set  madding  with  Punch 


And  Tyb  my  wife,  that,  as  her  Ijrfe, 

Loveth  well  good  ale  to  seeke, 
Full  oft  drynkes  shee,  tyll  ye  may  see, 

The  teares  run  downe  her  cheeke. 
Then  doth  she  trowle  to  me  the  bowle, 

Even  as  a  mault-worme  sholde, 
And  sayth,  sweete  harte,  I  tooke  my  parte 

Of  this  joly  good  ale  and  olde. 
Backe  and  syde  go  bare,  go  bare,  etc 


Chorus. 


Chorus. 


Now  let  them  drynke,  tyll  they  nod  and  winke. 

Even  as  goode  fellowes  sholde  doe, 
They  shall  not  mysse  to  have  the  blisse, 

Good  ale  doth  bring  men  to; 
And  all  poore  soules  that  have  scowred  bowler 

Or  have  them  lustily  trolde, 
God  save  the  lyves  of  them  and  their  wives. 

Whether  they  be  yonge  or  olde. 
Backe  and  syde  go  bare,  go  bare,  etc 


yGoogk 


LITTLE  BRITAIN  361 

and  the  Puppet  Show;  the  Flying  Horses;  Signior 
Polito;  the  Fire-Eater;  the  celebrated  Mr.  Paap;  and 
the  Irish  Giant.  The  children,  too,  lavish  all  their 
holiday  money  in  toys  and  gilt  gingerbread,  and  fill  the 
house  with  the  Lilliputian  din  of  drums,  trumpets,  and 
penny  whistles. 

But  the  Lord  Mayor's  day  is  the  great  anniversary. 
The  Lord  Mayor  is  looked  up  to  by  the  inhabitants  of 
Little  Britain  as  the  greatest  potentate  upon  earth; 
his  gilt  coach  with  six  horses  as  the  summit  of  human 
splendor;  and  his  procession,  with  aU  the  Sheriffs  and 
Aldermen  in  his  train,  as  the  grandest  of  earthly  pag- 
eants. How  they  exult  in  the  idea,  that  the  King  him- 
self dare  not  enter  the  city,  without  first  knocking  at 
the  gate  of  Temple  Bar,^  and  asking  permission  of  the 
Lord  Mayor:  for  if  he  did,  heaven  and  earth!  there  is 
no  knowing  what  might  be  the  consequence.  The 
man  in  armor  who  rides  before  the  Lord  Mayor,  and  is 
the  city  champion,  has  orders  to  cut  down  everybody 
that  offends  against  the  dignity  of  the  city;  and  then 
there  is  the  Uttle  man  with  a  velvet  porringer  on  his 
head,  who  sits  at  the  window  of  the  state  coach,  and 
holds  the  city  sword,  as  long  as  a  pike-staff — Odd's 
blood!  If  he  once  draws  that  sword.  Majesty  itself  is 
not  safe! 

Under  the  protection  of  this  mighty  potentate, 
therefore,  the  good  people  of  Little  Britain  sleep  in 
peace.  Temple  Bar  is  an  effectual  barrier  against  all 
interior  foes;  and  as  to  foreign  invasion,  the  Lord 
Mayor  has  but  to  throw  himself  into  the  Tower,  call  in 

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362  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

the  train  bands,  and  put  the  standing  army  of  Beef* 
eaters  under  arms,  and  he  may  bid  defiance  to  the 
world! 

Thus  wrapped  up  in  its  own  concerns,  its  own  habits, 
and  its  own  opinions.  Little  Britain  has  long  flourished 
as  a  soimd  heart  to  this  great  fimgous  metropolis.  I 
have  pleased  myself  with  considering  it  as  a  chosen 
spot,  where  the  principles  of  sturdy  John  Bullism  were 
garnered  up,  like  seed  com,  to  renew  the  national 
character,  when  it  had  run  to  waste  and  degeneracy. 
I  have  rejoiced  also  in  the  general  spirit  of  harmony 
that  prevailed  throughout  it;  for  though  there  might 
now  and  then  be  a  few  clashes  of  opinion  between  the 
adherents  of  the  cheese-monger  and  the  apothecary, 
and  an  occasional  feud  between  the  burial  societies, 
yet  these  were  but  transient  clouds,  and  soon  passed 
away.  The  neighbors  met  with  good-will,  parted 
with  a  shake  of  the  hand,  and  never  abused  each 
other  except  behind  their  backs. 

I  could  give  rare  descriptions  of  snug  junketing 
parties  at  which  I  have  been  present;  where  we  played 
at  All-Fotu^,  Pope- Joan,  Tom-come-tickle-me,  and 
other  choice  old  games;  and  where  we  sometimes  had 
a  good  old  English  country  dance  to  the  tune  of  Sir 
Roger  de  Coverley.  Once  a  year  also  the  neighbors 
would  gather  together,  and  go  on  a  gipsy  party  to 
Epping  Forest.  It  would  have  done  any  man's  heart 
good  to  see  the  merriment  that  took  place  here  as  we 
banqueted  on  the  grass  under  the  trees.  How  we 
made  the  woods  ring  with  bursts  of  laughter  at  the 

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LITTLE  BRITAIN  36J 

songs  of  little  Wagstaff  and  the  merry  undertaker  f 
After  dinner,  too,  the  young  folks  would  play  at  blind- 
man's-buff  and  hide-and-seek;  and  it  was  amusing  to 
see  them  tangled  among  the  briers,  and  to  hear  a  fine 
romping  girl  now  and  then  squeak  from  among  the 
bushes.  The  elder  folks  would  gather  round  the 
cheese-monger  and  the  apothecary,  to  hear  them  talk 
politics;  for  they  generally  brought  out  a  newspaper  in 
their  pockets,  to  pass  away  time  in  the  country.  They 
would  now  and  then,  to  be  sure,  get  a  little  warm  in 
argument;  but  their  disputes  were  always  adjusted  by 
reference  to  a  worthy  old  tunbrella-maker  in  a  double 
chin,  who,  never  exactly  comprehending  the  subject, 
managed  somehow  or  other  to  decide  in  favor  of  both 
parties. 

All  empires,  however,  says  some  philosopher  or 
historian,  are  doomed  to  changes  and  revolutions. 
Luxury  and  innovation  creep  in;  factions  arise;  and 
families  now  and  then  spring  .up,  whose  ambition  and 
intrigues  throw  the  whole  system  into  confusion. 
Thus  in  latter  days  has  the  tranquillity  of  Little 
Britain  been  grievously  disturbed,  and  its  golden  sim- 
plicity of  manners  threatened  with  total  subversion,  by 
the  aspiring  family  of  a  retired  butcher. 

The  family  of  the  Lambs  had  long  been  among  the 
most  thriving  and  popular  in  the  neighborhood;  the 
Miss  Lambs  were  the  belles  of  Little  Britain,  and 
everybody  was  pleased  when  Old  Lamb  had  made 
money  enough  to  shut  up  shop,  and  put  his  name  on  a 
brass  plate  on  his  door.    In  an  evil  hour,  however,  one 

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264  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

of  the  Miss  Lambs  had  the  honor  of  being  a  lady  in 
attendance  on  the  Lady  Mayoress,  at  her  grand 
annual  ball,  on  which  occasion  she  wore  three  towering 
ostrich  feathers  on  her  head.  The  family  never  got 
over  it;  they  were  immediately  smitten  with  a  passion 
for  high  life;  set  up  a  one-horse  carriage,  put  a  bit  of 
gold  lace  round  the  errand  boy's  hat,  and  have  been 
the  talk  and  detestation  of  the  whole  neighborhood 
ever  since.  They  could  no  longer  be  induced  to  play 
at  Pope- Joan  or  blind-man's-buff;  they  could  endure 
no  dances  but  quadrilles,  which  nobody  had  ever, 
heard  of  in  Little  Britain;  and  they  took  to  reading 
novels,  talking  bad  French,  and  playing  upon  the 
piano.  Their  brother,  too,  who  had  been  articled  to 
an  attorney,  set  up  for  a  dandy  and  a  critic,  characters 
hitherto  imknown  in  these  parts;  and  he  confounded 
the  worthy  folks  exceedingly  by  talking  about  Kean, 
the  opera,  ^  and  the  Edinburgh  Review. 

What  was  still  worse,  the  Lambs  gave  a  grand  ball, 
to  which  they  neglected  to  invite  any  of  their  old 
neighbors;  but  they  had  a  great  deal  of  genteel  com- 
pany from  Theobald's  Road,  Red-Lion  Square,  and 
other  parts  towards  the  west.  There  were  several 
beaux  of  their,  brother's  acquaintance  from  Gray's  Inn 
Lane  and  Hatton  Garden;  and  not  less  than  three 
Aldermen's  ladies  with  their  daughters.  This  was 
not  to  be  forgotten  or  forgiven.  All  Little  Britain 
was  in  an  uproar  with  the  smacking  of  whips,  the 
lashing  of  miserable  horses,  and  the  rattling  and 
the  jingling  of  hackney  coaches.    The  gossips  of  the 

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LITTLE  BRITAIN  365 

neighborhood  might  be  seen  popping  their  night-caps 
out  at  every  window,  watching  the  crazy  vehicles 
rumble  by;  and  there  was  a  knot  of  virulent  old 
cronies,  that  kept  a  look-out  from  a  house  just  opposite 
the  retired  butcher's,  and  scanned  and  criticised  every 
one  that  knocked  at  the  door. 

This  dance  was  a  cause  of  almost  open  war,  and  the 
whole  neighborhood  declared  they  would  have  nothing 
more  to  say  to  the  Lambs.  It  is  true  that  Mrs. 
Lamb,  when  she  had  no  engagements  with  her  quaUty 
acquaintance,  would  give  little  humdrum  tea  junk- 
etings to  some  of  her  old  cronies,  *' quite,"  as  she 
would  say,  ''in  a  friendly  way'*;  and  it  is  equally  true 
that  her  invitations  were  always  accepted,  in  spite  of 
all  previous  vows  to  the  contrary.  Nay,  the  good 
ladies  would  sit  and  be  delighted  with  the  music  of  the 
Miss  Lambs,  who  would  condescend  to  strum  an 
Irish  melody  for  them  on  the  piano;  and  they  would 
listen  with  wonderful  interest  to  Mrs.  Lamb's  anec- 
dotes of  Alderman  Plunket's  family,  of  Portsoken- 
ward,  and  the  Miss  Timberlakes,  the  rich  heiresses  of 
Crutched-Friars;  but  then  they  relieved  their  con- 
sciences, and  averted  the  reproaches  of  their  confeder- 
ates, by  canvassing  at  the  next  gossiping  convocation 
everything  that  had  passed,  and  pulling  the  Lambs 
and  their  rout  all  to  pieces. 

The  only  one  of  the  family  that  could  not  be  made 
fashionable  was  the  retired  butcher  himself.  Honest 
Lamb,  in  spite  of  the  meekness  of  his  name,  was  a 
rough,  hearty  old  fellow,  with  the  voice  of  a  lion,  a 

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366  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

head  of  black  hair  like  a  shoe-brush,  and  a  broad  face 
mottled  like  his  own  beef.  It  was  in  vain  that  the 
daughters  always  spoke  of  him  as  **the  old  gentle- 
man," addressed  him  as  '*papa,'*  in  tones  of  infinite 
softness,  and  endeavored  to  coax  him  into  a  dressing- 
gown  and  slippers,  and  other  gentlemanly  habits. 
Do  what  they  might,  there  was  no  keeping  down  the 
butcher.  His  sturdy  nature  would  break  through  all 
their  glozings.  He  had  a  hearty  vulgar  good-htimor 
that  was  irrepressible.  His  very  jokes  made  his 
sensitive  daughters  shudder;  and  he  persisted  in 
wearing  his  blue  cotton  coat  of  a  morning,  dining  at 
two  o'clock,  and  having  a  **l)it  of  sausage  with  his 
tea." 

He  was  doomed,  however,  to  share  the  unpopularity 
of  his  family.  He  found  his  old  comrades  gradually 
growing  cold  and  civil  to  him;  no  longer  laughing  at 
his  jokes;  and  now  and  then  throwing  out  a  fling  at 
"some  people,"  and  a  hint  about  'Equality  binding." 
This  both  nettled  and  perplexed  the  honest  butcher; 
and  his  wife  and  daughters,  with  the  consummate 
policy  of  the  shrewder  sex,  taking  advantage  of  the 
circumstance,  at  length  prevailed  upon  him  to  give  up 
his  afternoon's  pipe  and  tankard  at  Wagstaff's;  to  sit 
after  dinner  by  himself,  and  take  his  pint  of  port — ^a 
liquor  he  detested — and  to  nod  in  his  chair  in  solitary 
and  dismal  gentility. 

The  Miss  Lambs  might  now  be  seen  flaunting  along 
the  streets  in  French  bonnets,  with  unknown  beaux; 
and  talking  and  laughing  so  loud  that  it  distressed  the 

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LITTLE  BRITAIN  367 

nerves  of  every  good  lady  within  hearing.  They  even 
went  so  far  as  to  attempt  patronage,  and  actually 
induced  a  French  dancing-master  to  set  up  in  the 
neighborhood;  but  the  worthy  folks  of  Little  Britain 
took  fire  at  it,  and  did  so  persecute  the  poor  Gaul,  that 
he  was  fain  to  pack  up  fiddle  and  dandng-pumps,  and 
decamp  with  such  precipitation,  that  he  absolutely 
forgot  to  pay  for  his  lodgings. 

I  had  flattered  myself,  at  first,  with  the  idea  that  all 
this  fiery  indignation  on  the  part  of  the  community 
was  merely  the  overflowing  of  their  zeal  for  good  old 
English  manners,  and  their  horror  of  innovation;  and 
I  applauded  the  silent  contempt  they  were  so  vocifer- 
ous in  expressing,  for  upstart  pride,  French  fashions, 
and  the  Miss  Lambs.  But  I  grieve  to  say  that  I  soon 
perceived  the  infection  had  taken  hold;  and  that  my 
neighbors,  after  condemning,  were  beginning  to 
follow  their  example.  I  overheard  my  landlady 
importtming  her  husband  to  let  their  daughters  have 
one  quarter  at  French  and  music,  and  that  they 
might  take  a  few  lessons  in  quadrille.  I  even  saw,  in 
the  course  of  a  few  Sundays,  no  less  than  five  French 
bonnets,  precisely  like  those  of  the  Miss  Lambs^ 
parading  about  Little  Britain. 

I  still  had  my  hopes  that  all  this  folly  would  grad- 
ually die  away;  that  the  Lambs  might  move  out  of  the 
neighborhood;  might  die,  or  might  run  away  with 
attorneys'  apprentices;  and  that  quiet  and  simplicity 
might  be  again  restored  to  the  commtmity.  But 
unluckily  a  rival  power  arose.    An  opulent  oilman 

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,^68  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

died,  and  left  a  widow  with  a  large  jointure  and  a 
family  of  bxixom  daughters.  The  young  ladies  had 
long  been  repining  in  secret  at  the  parsimony  of  a 
prudent  father,  which  kept  down  all  their  elegant 
aspirings.  Their  ambition,  being  now  no  longer 
restrained,  broke  out  into  a  blaze,  and  they  openly 
took  the  field  against  the  family  of  the  butcher.  It  is 
true  that  the  Lambs,  having  had  the  first  start,  had 
naturally  an  advantage  of  them  in  the  fashionable 
career.  They  could  speak  a  little  bad  French,  play 
the  piano,  dance  quadrilles,  and  had  formed  high 
acquaintances;  but  the  Trotters  were  not  to  be  dis- 
tanced. When  the  Lambs  appeared  with  two  feathers 
in  their  hats,  the  Miss  Trotters  mounted  fotir,  and  of 
twice  as  fine  colors.  If  the  Lambs  gave  a  dance, 
the  Trotters  were  sure  not  to  be  behindhand;  and 
though  they  might  not  boast  of  as  good  company,  yet 
they  had  double  the  ntunber,  and  were  twice  as 
merry. 

The  whole  conmiunity  has  at  length  divided  itself 
into  fashionable  factions,  tmder  the  banners  of  these 
two  families.  The  old  games  of  Pope- Joan  and  Tom- 
come-tickle-me  are  entirely  discarded;  there  is  no 
such  thing  as  getting  up  an  honest  country  dance; 
and  on  my  attempting  to  kiss  a  young  lady  tmder 
the  mistletoe  last  Christmas,  I  was  indignantly 
repulsed;  the  Miss  Lambs  having  pronounced  it 
"shocking  vulgar."  Bitter  rivalry  has  also  broken 
out  as  to  the  most  fashionable  part  of  Little  Britain; 
the  Lambs  standing  up  for  the  dignity  of  Cross- 
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LITTLE  BRITAIN  369 

Keys  Square,  and  the  Trotters  for  the  vicinity  of 
St.   Bartholomew's. 

Thus  is  this  little  territory  torn  by  factions  and 
internal  dissensions,  like  the  great  empire  whose  name 
it  bears;  and  what  will  be  the  result  would  puzzle  the 
apothecary  himself,  with  all  his  talent  at  prognostics, 
to  detennine;  though  I  apprehend  that  it  will 
terminate  in  the  total  downfall  of  genuine  John 
Bullism. 

The  immediate  effects  are  extremely  tmpleasant  to 
me.  Being  a  single  man,  and,  as  I  observed  before, 
rather  an  idle  good-for-nothing  personage,  I  have  been 
considered  the  only  gentleman  by  profession  in  the 
place.  I  stand  therefore  in  high  favor  with  both 
parties,  and  have  to  hear  all  their  cabinet  councils  and 
mutual  backbitings.  As  I  am  too  dvil  not  to  agree 
with  the  ladies  on  all  occasions,  I  have  committed  my- 
self most  horribly  with  both  parties,  by  abusing  their 
opponents.  I  might  manage  to  reconcile  this  to  my 
conscience,  which  is  a  truly  accommodating  one,  but  I 
cannot  to  my  apprehension — ^if  the  Lambs  and  Trot- 
ters ever  come  to  a  reconciliation,  and  compare  notes, 
I  am  ruined! 

I  have  determined,  therefore,  to  beat  a  retreat  in 
time,  and  am  actually  looking  out  for  some  other  nest 
in  this  great  city,  where  old  English  manners  are  still 
kept  up ;  where  French  is  neither  eaten,  drunk,  danced, 
nor  spoken;  and  where  there  are  no  fashionable 
families  of  retired  tradesmen.  This  foimd,  I  will,  like 
a  veteran  rat,  hasten  away  before  I  have  an  old  house 

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370  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

aix)ut  my  ears ;  bid  a  long,  though  a  sorrowful  adieu  to 
my  present  abode,  and  leave  the  rival  factions  of  the 
Lambs  and  the  Trotters  to  divide  the  distracted 
empare  of  Little  Britain. 


yGoogk 


STRATFORD-ON-AVON 

Thou  soft-flowing  Avon,  by  thy  silver  stream 
Of  things  more  than  moital  sweet  Shakespeare  would  dream; 
The  fairies  by  moonlight  dance  round  his  green  bed, 
For  hallow'd  the  turf  is  which  pillow'd  his  head. 

Garrick. 

To  a  homeless  man,  who  has  no  spot  on  this  wide 
world  which  he  can  tnily  call  his  own,  there  is  a 
momentary  feeling  of  something  like  independence 
and  territorial  consequence,  when,  after  a  weary  day's 
travel,  he  kicks  off  his  boots,  thrusts  his  feet  into 
slippers,  and  stretches  himself  before  an  inn  fire.  Let 
the  world  without  go  as  it  may;  let  kingdoms  rise  or 
fall,  so  long  as  he  has  the  wherewithal  to  pay  his  bill, 
he  is,  for  the  time  being,  the  very  monarch  of  all  he 
surveys.  The  arm-chair  is  his  throne,  the  poker  his 
sceptre,^  and  the  little  parlor,  some  twelve  feet  square, 
his  imdisputed  empire.  It  is  a  morsel  of  certainty, 
snatched  from  the  midst  of  the  uncertainties  of  life;  it 
is  a  sunny  moment  gleaming  out  kindly  on  a  cloudy 
day;  and  he  who  has  advanced  some  way  on  the 
pilgrimage  of  existence,  knows  the  importance  of 
husbanding  even  morsels  and  moments  of  enjoy- 
ment. "Shall  I  not  take  mine  ease  in  mine  inn?"* 
thought  I,  as  I  gave  the  fire  a  stir,  lolled  back  in 
my  elbow-chair,  and  cast  a  complacent  look  about 

371 

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372  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

the  Kttle  parlor  of  the  Red  Horse,  at  Stratford-on- 
Avon. 

The  words  of  sweet  Shakespeare  were  just  passing 
through  my  mind  as  the  clock  struck  midnight  from 
the  tower  of  the  church  in  which  he  lies  buried.  There 
was  a  gentle  tap  at  the  door,  and  a  pretty  chamber- 
maid, putting  in  her  smiling  face,  inquired,  with  a 
hesitating  air,  whether  I  had  rung.  I  imderstood  it  as 
a  modest  hint  that  it  was  time  to  retire.  My  dream  of 
absolute  dominion  was  at  an  end;  so  abdicating  my 
throne,  Uke  a  prudent  potentate,  to  avoid  being 
deposed,  and  putting  the  Stratford  Guide-Book  imder 
my  arm,  as  a  pillow  companion,  I  went  to  bed,  and 
dreamt  all  night  of  Shakespeare,  the  jubilee,  and 
David  Garrick. 

The  next  morning  was  one  of  those  quickening 
mornings  which  we  sometimes  have  in  early  spring; 
for  it  was  about  the  middle  of  March.  The  chills  of  a 
long  winter  had  suddenly  given  way;  the  north  wind 
had  spent  its  last  gasp;  and  a  mild  air  came  stealing 
from  the  west,  breathing  the  breath  of  life  into  nature, 
and  wooing  every  bud  and  flower  to  burst  forth  into 
fragrance  and  beauty. 

I  had  come  to  Stratford  on  a  poetical  pilgrimage. 
My  first  visit  was  to  the  house  where  Shakespeare  was 
bom,  and  where,  according  to  tradition,  he  was 
brought  up  to  his  father's  craft  of  wool-combing.  It 
is  a  small,  mean-looking  edifice  of  wood  and  plaster, 
a  true  nestling-place  of  genius,  which  seems  to  delight 
in  hatching  its  offspring  in  by-comers.     The  walls  of 

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STRA  TFORD'ON'A  VON  373 

its  squalid  chambers  are  covered  with  names  and 
inscriptions  in  every  language,  by  pilgrims  of  all 
nations,  ranks,  and  conditions,  from  the  prince  to  the 
peasant;  and  present  a  simple,  but  striking  instance 
of  the  spontaneous  and  universal  homage  of  mankind 
to  the  great  poet  of  nature. 

The  house  is  shown  by  a  garrulous  old  lady,  ii:i  a 
frosty  red  face,  lighted  up  by  a  cold  blue  anxious  eye, 
and  garnished  with  artificial  locks  of  flaxen  hair, 
curling  from  under  an  exceedingly  dirty  cap.  She 
was  peculiarly  assiduous  in  exhibiting  the  relics  with 
which  this,  like  all  other  celebrated  shrines,  abounds. 
There  was  the  shattered  stock  of  the  very  match-lock 
with  which  Shakespeare  shot  the  deer,  on  his  poaching 
exploits.  There,  too,  was  his  tobacco-box;  which 
proves  that  he  was  a  rival  smoker  of  Sir  Walter 
Raleigh:  the  sword  also  with  which  he  played  Hamlet; 
and  the  identical  lantern  with  which  Friar  Laurence 
discovered  Romeo  and  Juliet  at  the  tomb!  There 
was  an  ample  supply  also  of  Shakespeare's  mulberry- 
tree,  which  seems  to  have  as  extraordinary  powers 
of  self -multiplication  as  the  wood  of  the  true  cross; 
of  which  there  is  enough  extant  to  build  a  ship  of 
the  line. 

The  most  favorite  object  of  ctiriosity,  however,  is 
Shakespeare's  chair.  It  stands  in  the  chimney  nook  of 
a  small  gloomy  chamber,  just  behind  what  was  his 
father's  shop.  Here  he  may  many  a  time  have  sat 
wh/^n  a  boy,  watching  the  slowly  revolving  spit  with 
all  the  longing  of  an  urchin;  or  of  an  evening,  listening 

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374  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

to  the  cronies  and  gossips  of  Stratford,  dealing  forth 
churchyard  tales  and  legendary  anecdotes  of  the 
troublesome  times  of  England.  In  this  chair  it  is  the 
custom  of  every  one  that  visits  the  house  to  sit: 
whether  this  be  done  with  the  hope  of  imbibing  any 
of  the  inspiration  of  the  bard  I  am  at  a  loss  to  say,  I 
merely  mention  the  fact;  and  mine  hostess  privately 
assured  me,  that,  though  built  of  solid  oak,  such  was 
the  fervent  zeal  of  devotees,  that  the  chair  had  to  be 
new  bottomed  at  least  once  in  three  years.  It  is 
worthy  of  notice  also,  in  the  history  of  this  extraordi- 
nary chair,  that  it  partakes  something  of  the  volatile 
nature  of  the  Santa  Casa  of  Loretto,  or  the  &yrng 
chair  of  the  Arabian  enchanter;  for  though  sold  some 
few  years  since  to  a  northern  princess,  yet,  strange  to 
tell,  it  has  foimd  its  way  back  again  to  the  old  chimney 
comer. 

I  am  always  of  easy  faith  in  such  matters,  and  am 
ever  willing  to  be  deceived,  where  the  deceit  is  pleasant 
and  costs  nothing.  I  am  therefore  a  ready  believer 
in  relics,  legends,  and  local  anecdotes  of  goblins  and 
great  men;  and  would  advise  all  travellers  who  travel 
for  their  gratification  to  be  the  same.  What  is  it  to  us, 
whether  these  stories  be  true  or  false,  so  long  as  we  can 
persuade  ourselves  into  the  belief  of  them,  and  enjoy 
all  the  charm  of  the  reality?  There  is  nothing  like 
resolute  good-humored  credulity  in  these  matters;  and 
on  this  occasion  I  went  even  so  far  as  willingly  to 
believe  the  claims  of  mine  hostess  to  a  lineal  descent 
from  the  poet,  when,  luckily,  for  my  faith,  she  put  into 

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STRA  TFORD'ON-A  VON  375 

my  hands  a  play  of  her  own  composition,  which  set  all 
belief  in  her  consanguinity  at  defiance. 

From  the  birthplace  of  Shakespeare  a  few  paces 
brought  me  to  his  grave.  He  lies  buried  in  the  chancel 
of  the  parish  church,  a  large  and  venerable  pile, 
mouldering  with  age,  but  richly  ornamented.  It 
stands  on  the  banks  of  the  Avon,  on  an  embowered 
point,  and  separated  by  adjoining  gardens  from  the 
suburbs  of  the  town.  Its  situation  is  quiet  and 
retired;  the  river  runs  murmuring  at  the  foot  of  the 
churchyard,  and  the  elms  which  grow  upon  its  banks 
droop  their  branches  into  its  clear  bosom.  An  avenue 
of  limes,  the  boughs  of  which  are  curiously  interlaced, 
so  as  to  form  in  summer  an  arched  way  of  foliage,  leads 
up  from  the  gate  of  the  yard  to  the  church  porch. 
The  graves  are  overgrown  with  grass;  the  gray  tomb- 
stones, some  of  them  nearly  sunk  into  the  earth,  are 
half  covered  with  moss,  which  has  likewise  tinted  the 
reverend  old  building.  Small  birds  have  built  their 
nests  among  the  cornices  and  fissures  of  the  walls,  and 
keep  up  a  continual  flutter  and  chirping;  and  rooks  are 
sailing  and  cawing  about  its  lofty  gray  spire. 

In  the  course  of  my  rambles  I  met  with  the  gray- 
headed  sexton,  Edmonds,  and  accompanied  him  home 
to  get  the  key  of  the  church.  He  had  lived  in  Strat- 
ford, man  and  boy,  for  eighty  years,  and  seemed  still 
to  consider  himself  a  vigorous  man,  with  the  trivial 
exception  that  he  had  nearly  lost  the  use  of  his  legs  for 
a  few  years  past.  His  dwelling  was  a  cottage,  looking 
cmt  upon  the  Avon  and  its  bordering  meadows;  and 

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376  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

was  a  picttire  of  that  neatness,  order,  and  comfort, 
which  pervade  the  humblest  dwellings  in  this  country. 
A  low  white-washed  room,  with  a  stone  floor  carefully 
scrubbed,  served  for  parlor,  kitchen,  and  hall.  Rows 
of  pewter  and  earthen  dishes  glittered  along  the  dres- 
ser. On  an  old  oaken  table,  well  rubbed  and  polished, 
lay  the  family  Bible  and  prayer-book,  and  the  drawer 
contained  the  family  library,  composed  of  about  half 
a  score  of  well-thiunbed  voltmies.  An  ancient  clock, 
that  important  article  of  cottage  furniture,  ticked 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  room;  with  a  bright 
warming-pan  hanging  on  one  side  of  it,  and  the  old 
man's  horn-handled  Simday  cane  on  the  other.  The* 
fireplace,  as  usual,  was  wide  and  deep  enough  to 
admit  a  gossip  knot  within  its  jambs.  In  one  comer 
sat  the  old  man's  granddaughter  sewing,  a  pretty  blue- 
eyed  girl, — and  in  the  opposite  comer  was  a  super- 
annuated crony,  whom  he  addressed  by  the  name  of 
John  Ange,  and  who,  I  foimd,  had  been  his  companion 
from  childhood.  They  had  played  together  in 
infancy;  they  had  worked  together  in  manhood;  they 
w^ere  now  tottering  about  and  gossiping  away  the 
evening  of  life;  and  in  a  short  time  they  will  probably 
be  buried  together  in  the  neighboring  churchyard.  It 
is  not  often  that  we  see  two  streams  of  existence 
running  thus  evenly  and  tranquilly  side  by  side;  it 
is  only  in  such  quiet  *' bosom  scenes'*  of  life  that  they 
are  to  be  met  with. 

I  had  hoped  to  gather  some  traditionary  anecdotes 
of  the  bard  from  these  ancient  chroniclers;  but  they 

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STRA  TFORD-ON-A  VON  377, 

had  nothing  new  to  impart.  The  long  interval  dur-. 
ing  which  Shakespeare's  writings  lay  in  comparative- 
neglect  has  spread  its  shadow  over  his  history ;  and  it  is 
his  good  or  evil  lot  that  scarcely  anything  remains  to 
his  biographers  but  a  scanty  handful  of  conjectures. 

The  sexton  and  his  companion  had  been  employed 
as  carpenters  on  the  preparations  for  the  celebrated 
Stratford  jubilee,  and  they  remembered  Garrick,  the 
prime  mover  of  the  ffite,  who  superintended  the 
arrangements,  and  who,  according  to  the  sexton,  was 
''a  short  pimch  man,  very  lively  and  bustling.'*. 
John  Ange  had  assisted  also  in  cutting  down  Shake- 
speare's mulberry  tree,  of  which  he  had  a  morsel  in  his 
pocket  for  sale;  no  doubt  a  sovereign  quickener  of 
literary  conception. 

I  was  grieved  to  hear  these  two  worthy  wights  speak 
very  dubiously  of  the  eloquent  dame  who  shows  the 
Shakespeare  house.  John  Ange  shook  his  head  when  I 
mentioned  her  valuable  collection  of  relics,  particu- 
larly her  remains  of  the  mulberry- tree;  and  the  old 
sexton  even  expressed  a  doubt  as  to  Shakespeare  hav- 
ing been  bom  in  her  house.  I  soon  discovered  that  he 
looked  upon  her  mansion  with  an  evil  eye,  as  a  rival  to 
the  poet's  tomb;  the  latter  having  comparatively  but 
few  visitors.  Thus  it  is  that  historians  differ  at  the 
very  outset,  and  mere  pebbles  make  the  stream  of 
truth  diverge  into  different  channels  even  at  the 
foimtain  head. 

We  approached  the  church  through  the  avenue  of 
limes,  and  entered  by  a  Gothic  porch,  highly  oma- 

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378  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

mented,  with  carved  doors  of  massive  oak.  The 
interior  is  spacious,  and  the  architecture  and  embel- 
lishments superior  to  those  of  most  coimtry  churches. 
There  are  several  ancient  monuments  of  nobiUty  and 
gentry,  over  some  of  which  hang  fimeral  escutcheons, 
and  banners  dropping  piecemeal  from  the  walls.  The 
tomb  of  Shakespeare  is  in  the  chancel.  The  place  is 
solemn  and  sepulchral.  Tall  elms  wave  before  the 
pointed  windows,  and  the  Avon,  which  runs  at  a  short 
distance  from  the  walls,  keeps  up  a  low  perpetual 
murmur.  A  flat  stone  marks  the  spot  where  the  bard 
is  buried.  There  are  four  lines  inscribed  on  it,  said  to 
have  been  written  by  himself,  and  which  have  in  them 
something  extremely  awful.  If  they  are  indeed  his 
own,  they  show  that  solicitude  about  the  quiet  of  the 
grave,  which  seems  natural  to  fine  sensibilities  and 
thoughtful  minds. 

Good  friend,  for  Jesus*  sake  forbeare 
To  dig  the  dust  enclosed  here. 
Blessed  be  he  that  spares  these  stones, 
And  curst  be  he  that  moves  my  bones. 

Just  over  the  grave,  in  a  niche  of  the  wall,  is  a  bust 
of  Shakespeare,  put  up  shortly  after  his  death,  and  con- 
sidered as  a  resemblance.  The  aspect  is  pleasant  and 
serene,  with  a  finely-arched  forehead;  and  I  thought 
I  could  read  in  it  clear  indications  of  that  cheerful, 
social  disposition,  by  which  he  was  as  much  character- 
ized among  his  contemporaries  as  by  the  vastness  of 
his  genius.    The  inscription  mentions  his  age  at  the 

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STRA  TFORD'ON-A  VON  379 

time  of  his  decease — ^fifty-three  years;  an  untimely 
death  for  the  world :  for  what  fruit  might  not  have  been 
expected  from  the  golden  autumn  of  such  a  mind,  shel- 
tered as  it  was  from  the  stormy  vicissitudes  of  life,  and 
flourishing  in  the  sunshine  of  popular  and  royal  favor. 

The  inscription  on  the  tombstone  has  not  been 
without  its  effect.  It  has  prevented  the  removal  of 
his  remains  from  the  bosom  of  his  native  place  to 
Westminster  Abbey,  which  was  at  one  time  contem- 
plated. A  few  years  since  also,  as  some  laborers  were 
digging  to  make  an  adjoining  vault,  the  earth  caved  in, 
so  as  to  leave  a  vacant  space  almost  like  an  arch, 
through  which  one  might  have  reached  into  his  grave. 
No  one,  however,  presumed  to  meddle  with  his 
remains  so  awfully  guarded  by  a  malediction;  and  lest 
any  of  the  idle  or  the  curious,  or  any  collector  of  relics, 
should  be  tempted  to  commit  depredations,  the  old 
sexton  kept  watch  over  the  place  for  two  days,  until 
the  vault  was  finished  and  the  aperture  closed  again. 
He  told  me  that  he  had  made  bold  to  look  in  at  the 
hole,  but  could  see  neither  cofl5n  nor  bones;  nothing 
but  dust.  It  was  something,  I  thought,  to  have  seen 
the  dust  of  Shakespeare. 

Next  to  this  grave  are  those  of  his  wife,  his  favorite 
daughter,  Mrs.  Hall,  and  others  of  his  family.  On  a 
tomb  close  by,  also,  is  a  full-length  effigy  of  his  old 
friend  John  Combe  of  usurious  memory;  on  whom  he 
is  said  to  have  written  a  ludicrous  epitaph.  There  are 
other  monuments  aroimd,  but  the  mind  refuses  to 
dwell  on  anything  that  is  not  connected  with  Shake- 
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38o  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

speare.  His  idea  pervades  the  place;  the  whole  pile 
seems  but  as  his  mausoleum.  The  feelings,  no  longer 
checked  and  thwarted  by  doubt,  here  indulge  in 
perfect  confidence;  other  traces  of  him  may  be  false  or 
dubious,  but  here  are  palpable  evidence  and  absolute 
certainty.  As  I  trod  the  sounding  pavement,  there 
was  something  intense  and  thrilling  in  the  idea,  that, 
in  very  truth,  the  remains  of  Shakespeare  were  mould- 
ering beneath  my  feet.  It  was  a  long  time  before  I 
could  prevail  upon  myself  to  leave  the  place;  and  as  I 
passed  through  the  churchyard,  I  plucked  a  branch 
from  one  of  the  yew  trees,  the  only  relic  that  I  have 
brought  from  Stratford. 

I  had  now  visited  the  usual  objects  of  a  pilgrim's 
devotion,  but  I  had  a  desire  to  see  the  old  family  seat 
of  the  Lucys,  at  Charlecot,  and  to  ramble  through  the 
park  where  Shakespeare,  in  company  with  some  of  the 
roysters  of  Stratford,  committed  his  youthful  offence 
of  deer-stealing.  In  this  hare-brained  exploit  we  are 
told  that  he  was  taken  prisoner,  and  carried  to  the 
keeper's  lodge,  where  he  remained  all  night  in  doleful 
captivity.  When  brought  into  the  presence  of  Sir 
Thomas  Lucy,  his  treatment  must  have  been  galling 
knd  htuniliating;  for  it  so  wrought  upon  his  spirit  as  to 
produce  a  rough  pasquinade,  which  was  affixed  to  the 
park  gate  at  Charlecot.* 

*  The  following  is  the  only  stanza  extant  of  this  lampoon: 

A  parliament  member,  a  justice  of  peace, 

At  home  a  poor  scarecrow,  at  London  ao  asse, 

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STRA  TFORD'ON-A  VON  381 

This  flagitious  attack  upon  the  dignity  of  the  knight 
so  incensed  him,  that  he  applied  to  a  lawyer  at  War- 
wick to  put  the  severity  of  the  laws  in  force  against  the 
rhyming  deer-stalker.  Shakespeare  did  not  wait  to 
brave  the  united  puissance  of  a  knight  of  the  shire  and 
a  country  attorney.  He  forthwith  abandoned  the 
pleasant  banks  of  the  Avon  and  his  paternal  trade; 
wandered  away  to  London;  became  a  hanger-on  to  the 
theatres;  then  an  actor;  and,  finally,  wrote  for  the 
stage ;  and  thus,  through  the  persecution  of  Sir  Thomas 
Lucy,  Stratford  lost  an  indifferent  wool-comber,  and 
the  world  gained  an  immortal  poet.  He  retained, 
however,  f<5r  a  long  time,  a  sense  of  the  harsh  treat- 
ment of  the  Lord  of  Charlecot,  and  revenged  himself 
in  his  writings;  but  in  the  sportive  way  of  a  good- 
natured  mind.  Sir  Thomas  is  said  to  be  the  original 
Justice  Shallow,^  and  the  satire  is  slyly  fixed  upon  him 
by  the  justice's  armorial  bearings,  which,  like  those  of 
the  knight,  had  white  luces*  in  the  quarterings. 

Various  attempts  have  been  made  by  his  biog- 
raphers to  soften  and  explain  away  this  early  trans- 
gression of  the  poet;  but  I  look  upon  it  as  one  of  those 

If  lowsie  is  Lucy,  as  soem  volke  miscalle  it, 
Then  Lucy  is  lowsie,  whatever  befall  it. 
He  thinks  himself  great; 
Yet  an  asse  in  his  state, 
We  allow  by  his  ears  but  with  asses  to  mate, 
If  Lucy  is  lowsie,  as  some  volke  miscalle  it, 
Then  sing  lowsie  Lucy  whatever  befall  it. 
♦  The  luce  is  a  pike  or  jack,  and  aboimds  in  the  Avon  about 
Charlecot. 

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382  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

thoughtless  exploits  natural  to  his  situation  and  turn 
of  mind.  Shakespeare,  when  young,  had  doubtless  all 
the  wildness  and  irregularity  of  an  ardent,  iindisci- 
plined,  and  undirected  genius.  The  poetic  tempera- 
ment has  naturally  something  in  it  of  the  vagabond. 
When  left  to  itself  it  runs  loosely  and  wildly,  and 
delights  in  everything  eccentric  and  licentious.  It  is 
often  a  turn-up  of  a  die,  in  the  gambling  freaks  of  fate, 
whether  a  natural  genius  shall  turn  out  a  great  rogue  or 
a  great  poet ;  and  had  not  Shakespeare's  mind  fortu- 
nately taken  a  literary  bias,  he  might  have  as  daringly 
transcended  all  civil,  as  he  has  all  dramatic  laws. 

I  have  little  doubt  that,  in  early  life,  when  running 
like  an  unbroken  colt,  about  the  neighborhood  of 
Stratford,  he  was  to  be  found  in  the  company  of  all 
kinds  of  odd  anomalous  characters;  that  he  associated 
with  all  the  madcaps  of  the  place,  and  was  one  of  those 
unlucky  urchins,  at  mention  of  whom  old  men  shake 
their  heads,  and  predict  that  they  will  one  day  come 
to  the  gallows.  To  him  the  poaching  in  Sir  Thomas 
Lucy's  park  was  doubtless  like  a  foray  to  a  Scottish 
knight,  and  struck  his  eager,  and,  as  yet  untamed, 
imagination,  as  something  delightfully  adventurous.* 

*  A  proof  of  Shakespeare's  random  habits  and  associates  in  his 
youthful  days  may  be  found  in  a  traditionary  anecdote,  picked 
up  at  Stratford  by  the  elder  Ireland,  and  mentioned  in  his  Pic- 
turesque  Views  on  the  Avon, 

About  seven  miles  from  Stratford  lies  the  thirsty  little  market 
town  of  Bedford,  famous  for  its  ale.  Two  societies  of  the  vill^e 
yeomanry  used  to  meet,  under  the  appellation  of  the  Bedford  topers 
and  to  challenge  the  lovers  of  good  ale  of  the  neighboring  villages 

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STRA  TFORD'ON-A  VON  383 

The  old  mansion  of  Charlecot  and  its  stirrounding 
park  still  remain  in  the  possession  of  the  Lucy  family, 
and  are  peculiarly  interesting,  from  being  connected 
with  this  whimsical  but  eventful  circumstance  in  the 
scanty  history  of  the  bard.  As  the  house  stood  but 
little  more  than  three  miles'  distance  from  Stratford, 
I  resolved  to  pay  it  a  pedestrian  visit,  that  I  might 
stroll  leisurely  through  some  of  those  scenes  from 
which  Shakespeare  must  have  derived  his  earliest  ideas 
of  rural  imagery. 

The  coimtry  was  yet  naked  and  leafless ;  but  English 
scenery  is  always  verdant,  and  the  sudden  change  in 

to  contest  of  drinking.  Among  others,  the  people  of  Stratford 
were  called  out  to  prove  the  strength  of  their  heads;  and  in  the 
number  of  the  champions  was  Shakespeare,  who,  in  spite  of  the 
proverb  that "  they  who  drink  beer  will  think  beer,"  was  as  true  to 
his  ale  as  Falstaff  to  his  sack.  The  chivalry  of  Stratford  was  stag- 
gered at  the  first  onset,  and  sounded  a  retreat  while  they  had  yet 
legs  to  carry  them  off  the  field.  They  had  scarcely  marched  a 
mile  when,  their  legs  failing  them,  they  were  forced  to  lie  down 
under  a  crabtree,  where  they  passed  the  night.  It  is  still  stand- 
ing, and  goes  by  the  name  of  Shakespeare's  tree. 

In  the  morning  his  companions  awaked  the  bard,  and  proposed 
returning  to  Bedford,  but  he  declined,  saying  he  had  had  enough, 
having  drank  with 

Piping  Pebworth,  Dancing  Marston, 

Haunted  Hilbro',  Hungry  Grafton, 

Dudging  Exhall,  Papist  Wicksford, 

Beggarly  Broom,  and  Drunken  Bedford. 
"The  villages  here  alluded  to,"  says  Ireland,  *' still  bear  the 
epithets  thus  given  them:  the  people  of  Pebworth  are  still  famed  for 
their  skill  on  the  pipe  and  tabor;  Hilborough  is  now  called  Haunted 
HiUborough;  and  Grafton  is  famous  for  the  poverty  of  its  soil. " 


yGoogk 


^84  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

^he  temperature  of  the  weather  was  surprising  in  its 
<iuickening  effects  upon  the  landscape.  It  was  in- 
spiring and  animating  to  witness  this  first  awakening 
of  spring;  to  feel  its  warm  breath  stealing  over  the 
senses;  to  see  the  moist  mellow  earth  beginning  to  put 
forth  the  green  sprout  and  the  tender  blade;  and  the 
trees  and  shrubs,  in  their  reviving  tints  and  bursting 
buds,  giving  the  promise  of  returning  foliage  and 
flower.  The  cold  snow-drop,  that  little  borderer  on  the 
skirts  of  winter,  was  to  be  seen  with  its  chaste  white 
blossoms  in  the  small  gardens  before  the  cottages.  The 
bleating  of  the  new-dropt  lambs  was  faintly  heard  from 
the  fields.  The  sparrow  twittered  about  the  thatched 
eaves  and  budding  hedges;  the  robin  threw  a  livelier 
note  into  his  late  querulous  wintry  strain ;  and  the  lark, 
springing  up  from  the  reeking  bosom  of  the  meadow, 
towered  away  into  the  bright  fleecy  cloud,  pouring 
forth  torrents  of  melody.  As  I  watched  the  little  song- 
ster, mounting  up  higher  and  higher,  until  his  body  was 
a  mere  speck  on  the  white  bosom  of  the  cloud,  while 
the  ear  was  still  filled  with  his  music,  it  called  to  mind 
Shakespeare's  exquisite  little  song  in  Cymbeline: 

Hark!  hark!  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings, 

And  Phoebus*  gins  arise, 
His  steeds  to  water  at  those  springs, 

On  chaliced  flowers  that  lies. 

And  winking  maiy-buds  begin 

To  ope  their  golden  eyes; 
With  everything  that  pretty  bin. 

My  lady  sweet  arisel 


yGoogk 


STRA  T FORD-ON- A  VON  385 

Indeed  the  whole  country  about  here  is  poetic 
ground:  everjrthing  is  associated  with  the  idea  of 
Shakespeare.  Every  old  cottage  that  I  saw>  I  fancied 
into  some  resort  of  his  boyhood,  where  he  had  acquired 
his  intimate  knowledge  of  rustic  life  and  manners,  and 
heard  those  legendary  tales  and  wild  superstitions 
which  he  has  woven  like  witchcraft  into  his  dramas. 
For  in  his  time,  we  are  told,  it  was  a  popular  amuse- 
ment in  winter  evenings  **to  sit  round  the  fire  and  tell 
merry  tales  of  errant  knights,  queens,  lovers,  lords, 
ladies,  giants,  dwarfs,  thieves,  cheaters,  witches, 
fairies,  goblins,  and  friars."* 

My  route  for  a  part  of  the  way  lay  in  sight  of  the 
Avon,  which  made  a  variety  of  the  most  fancy  doub- 
lings and  windings  through  a  wide  and  fertile  valley; 
sometimes  glittering  from  among  willows,  which 
fringed  its  borders;  sometimes  disappearing  among 
groves,  or  beneath  green  banks;  and  sometimes  ramb- 
ling out  into  full  view,  and  making  an  azure  sweep 
round  a  slope  of  meadow  land.  This  beautiful  bosom 
of  coimtry  is  called  the  Vale  of  the  Red  Horse.  A 
distant  line  of  undulating  blue  hills  seems  to  be  its 

♦  Scot,  in  his  Discouerie  of  Witchcraft^  enumerates  a  host  of 
these  fireside  fancies.  "And  they  have  so  fraid  us  with  bull-beg- 
gars, spirits,  witches,  urchins,  elves,  hags,  fairies,  satyrs,  pans, 
faunes,  syrens,  kit  with  the  can  sticke,  tritons,  centaurs,  dwarfes, 
giantes,  imps,  calcars,  conjurors,  nymphes,  changelings,  incubus, 
Robin-good-fellow,  the  spoome,  the  mare,  the  man  in  the  oke, 
the  hell-waine,  the  fier-drake,  the  puckle,  Tom  Thombe,  hobgob- 
lins, Tom  Tumbler,  boneless,  and  such  other  bugs,  that  we  were 
afraid  of  otur  own  shadowes^  '* 

35 

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386  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

\ 

boundary,  whilst  all  the  soft  intervening  landscape 
lies  in  a  manner  enchained  in  the  silver  links  of  the 
Avon. 

After  pursuing  the  road  for  about  three  miles,  I 
turned  off  into  a  footpath,  which  led  along  the  borders 
of  fields,  and  under  hedgerows  to  a  private  gate  of  the 
park;  there  was  a  stile,  however,  for  the  benefit  of  the 
pedestrian;  there  being  a  public  right  of  way  through 
the  grounds.  I  delight  in  these  hospitable  estates,  in 
which  every  one  has  a  kind  of  property — ^at  least  as  far 
as  the  footpath  is  concerned.  It  in  some  meastire 
reconciles  a  poor  man  to  his  lot,  and,  what  is  more,  to 
the  better  lot  of  his  neighbor,  thus  to  have  parks  and 
pleasure-grounds  thrown  open  for  his  recreation.  He 
breathes  the  pure  air  as  freely,  and  lolls  as  luxuriously 
Amder  the  shade,  as  the  lord  of  the  soil;  and  if  he  has 
not  the  privilege  of  calling  all  that  he  sees  his  own,  he 
has  not,  at  the  same  time,  the  trouble  of  pa3dng  for  it, 
and  keeping  it  in  order. 

I  now  found  myself  among  noble  avenues  of  oaks 
and  elms,  whose  vast  size  bespoke  the  growth  of 
centuries.  The  wind  sounded  solemnly  among  their 
branches,  and  the  rooks  cawed  from  their  hereditary 
nests  in  the  tree  tops.  The  eye  ranged  through  a  long 
lessening  vista,  with  nothing  to  interrupt  the  view  but 
a  distant  statue;  and  a  vagrant  deer  stalking  like  a 
shadow  across  the  opening. 

There  is  something  about  these  stately  old  avenues 
that  has  the  effect  of  Gothic  architecture,  not  merely 
from  the  pretended  similarity  of  form,  but  from  their 


yGaogk 


STRA  TFORD-ON'A  VON  387 

bearing  the  evidence  of  long  duration,  and  of  having 
had  their  origin  in  a  period  of  time  with  which  we 
associate  ideas  of  romantic  grandeur.  They  betoken 
also  the  long-settled  dignity,  and  proudly-concentrated 
independence  of  an  ancient  family;  and  I  have  heard 
a  worthy  but  aristocratic  old  friend  observe,  when 
speaking  of  the  sumptuous  palaces  of  modem  gentry, 
that  "money  could  do  much  with  stone  and  mortar, 
but,  thank  Heaven,  there  was  no  such  thing  as 
suddenly  building  up  an  avenue  of  oaks." 

It  was  from  wandering  in  early  life  among  this  rich 
scenery,  and  about  the  romantic  soUtudes  of  the 
adjoining  park  of  Fullbroke,  which  then  formed  a  part 
of  the  Lucy  estate,  that  some  of  Shakespeare's  com- 
mentators have  supposed  he  derived  his  noble  forest 
meditations  of  Jaques,^  and  the  enchanting  woodland 
pictures  in  -45  you  Like  it.  It  is  in  lonely  wander- 
ings through  such  scenes,  that  the  mind  drinks  deep 
but  quiet  draughts  of  inspiration,  and  becomes  in- 
tensely sensible  of  the  beauty  and  majesty  of  nature. 
The  imagination  kindles  into  reverie  and  rapture; 
vague  but  exquisite  images  and  ideas  keep  breaking 
upon  it;  and  we  revel  in  a  mute  and  almost  incom- 
municable luxury  of  thought.  It  was  in  some  such 
mood,  and  perhaps  under  one  of  those  very  trees 
before  me,  which  threw  their  broad  shades  over  the 
grassy  banks  and  quivering  waters  of  the  Avon, 
that  the  poet's  fancy  may  have  sallied  forth  into 
that  little  song  which  breathes  the  very  soul  of  a  rural 
voluptuary: 

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388  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

Under  the  green  wood  tree, 
Who  loves  to  lie  with  me, 
And  tune  his  merry  throat 
Unto  the  sweet  bird's  note, 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither. 

Here  shall  he  see 

No  enemy, 
But  winter  and  rough  weather.  * 

I  had  now  come  in  sight  of  the  house.  It  is  a  large 
building  of  brick,  with  stone  quoins,  and  is  in  the 
Gothic  style  of  Queen  Elizabeth's  day,  having  been 
built  in  the  first  year  of  her  reign.  The  exterior 
remains  very  nearly  in  its  original  state,  and  may  be 
considered  a  fair  specimen  of  the  residence  of  a  wealthy 
country  gentleman  of  those  days.  A  great  gateway 
opens  from  the  park  into  a  kind  of  courtyard  in  front 
of  the  house,  ornamented  with  a  grass-plot,  shrubs, 
and  flower-beds.  The  gatew^  is  in  imitation  of  the 
ancient  barbacan;  being  a  kind  of  outpost,  and  flanked 
by  towers;  though  evidently  for  mere  ornament, 
instead  of  defence.  The  front  of  the  house  is  com- 
pletely in  the  old  style;  with  stone-shafted  casements, 
a  great  bow-window  of  heavy  stone-work,  and  a  portal 
with  armorial  bearings  over  it — carved  in  stone.  At 
each  comer  of  the  building  is  an  octagon  tower,  sur- 
mounted by  a  gilt  ball  and  weathercock. 

The  Avon,  which  winds  through  the  park,  makes  a 
bend  just  at  the  foot  of  a  gently-sloping  bank,  which 
sweeps  down  from  the  rear  of  the  house.  Large  herds 
of  deer  were  feeding  or  reposing  upon  its  borders;  and 
swans  were  sailing  majestically  upon  its  bosom.    As 

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STRA  TFORD-ON-A  VON  389 

I  contemplated  the  venerable  old  mansion,  I  called  to 
mind  Falstaff*s  encomitim  on  Justice  Shallow's  abode, 
and  the  affected  indifference  and  real  vanity  of  the 
latter: 

Falstaff.    You  have  a  goodly  dwelling  and  a  rich. 
Shallow.     Barren,  barren,  barren;  beggars  all,  beggars  all.  Sir 
John: — marry,  good  air.' 

What  may  have  been  the  joviality  of  the  old  man- 
sion in  the  days  of  Shakespeare,  it  had  now  an  air  of 
stillness  and  solitude.  The  great  iron  gateway  that 
opened  into  the  courtyard  was  locked;  there  was  no 
show  of  servants  bustling  about  the  place;  the  deer 
gazed  quietly  at  me  as  I  passed,  being  no  longer  har- 
ried by  the  moss-troopers  of  Stratford.  The  only  sign 
of  domestic  life  that  I  met  with  was  a  white  cat,  steal- 
ing with  wary  look  and  stealthy  pace  towards  the 
stables,  as  if  on  some  nefarious  expedition.  I  must 
not  omit  to  mention  the  carcass  of  a  scoundrel  crow 
which  I  saw  suspended  against  the  bam  wall,  as  it 
shows  that  the  Lucys  still  inherit  that  lordly  abhor- 
rence of  poachers,  and  maintain  that  rigorous  exercise 
of  territorial  power  which  was  so  strenuously  mani- 
fested in  the  case  of  the  bard. 

After  prowling  about  for  some  time,  I  at  length 
found  my  way  to  a  lateral  portal,  which  was  the  every- 
day entrance  to  the  mansion.  I  was  courteously 
received  by  a  worthy  old  housekeeper,  who,  with  the 
civility  and  communicativeness  of  her  order,  showed 
me  the  interior  of  the  house.    The  greater  part  has 

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390  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

undergone  alterations,  and  been  adapted  to  modem 
tastes  and  modes  of  living:  there  is  a  fine  old  oaken 
staircase;  and  the  great  hall,  that  noble  feature  in  an 
ancient  manor-house,  still  retains  much  of  the  appear- 
ance it  must  have  had  in  the  days  of  Shakespeare.  The 
ceiling  is  arched  and  lofty;  and  at  one  end  is  a  gallery 
in  which  stands  an  organ.  The  weapons  and  trophies 
of  the  chase,  which  formerly  adorned  the  hall  of  a 
country  gentleman,  have  made  way  for  family  por- 
traits. There  is  a  wide  hospitable  fireplace,  calcu- 
lated for  an  ample  old-fashioned  wood  fire,  formerly 
the  rallying-place  of  winter  festivity.  On  the  opposite 
side  of  the  hall  is  the  huge  Gothic  bow- window,  with 
stone  shafts,  which  looks  out  upon  the  courtyard. 
Here  are  emblazoned  in  stained  glass  the  armorial 
bearings  of  the  Lucy  family  for  many  generations, 
some  being  dated  in  1558.  I  was  delighted  to  observe 
in  the  quarterings  the  three  white  luces,  by  which  the 
character  of  Sir  Thomas  was  first  identified  with  that  of 
Justice  Shallow.  They  are  mentioned  in  the  first  scene 
of  the  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,  where  the  Justice  is  in 
a  rage  with  FalstafI  for  having  **  beaten  his  men,  killed 
his  deer,  and  broken  into  his  lodge. "  The  poet  had  no 
doubt  the  offences  of  himself  and  his  comrades  in  mind 
at  the  time,  and  we  may  suppose  the  family  pride  and 
vindictive  threats  of  the  puissant  Shallow  to  be  a 
caricature  of  the  pompous  indignation  of  Sir  Thomas, 

Shallow,  Sir  Hugh,  perstiade  me  not;  I  will  make  a  Star- 
Chamber  matter  of  it;  if  he  were  twenty  John  Falstaffs,  he  shall 
not  abuse  Sir  Robert  Shallow,  Esq. 

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STRA  TFORD-ON'A  VON  391 

Slender*    In  the  county  of  Gloster,  justice  of  peace,  and  coram. 

Shallow.    Ay,  cousin  Slender,  and  custalorum. 

Slender,  Ay,  and  ratalorum  too,  and  a  gentleman  bora,  master 
parson;  who  writes  himself  Armigero  in  any  bill,  warrant,  quit- 
tance, or  obligation,  Armigero. 

Shallow.  Ay,  that  I  do;  and  have  done  any  time  these  three 
hundred  years. 

Slender.  All  his  successors  gone  before  him  have  done  *t,  and 
all  his  ancestors  that  come  after  him  may;  they  may  give  the 
dozen  white  luces  in  their  coat.  .  .  . 

Shallow.     The  council  shall  hear  it;  it  is  a  riot 

Evans.  It  is  not  meet  the  council  hear  of  a  riot;  there  is  no  f  2ar 
of  Got  in  a  riot;  the  council,  hear  you,  shall  desire  to  hear  the 
fear  of  Got,  and  not  to  hear  a  riot;  take  your  vizaments  in  that. 

Shallow.  Ha!  o*  my  life,  if  I  were  young  again,  the  sword 
should  end  it! 

Near  the  window  thus  emblazoned  hung  a  portrait 
by  Sir  Peter  Lely,  of  one  of  the  Lucy  family,  a  great 
beauty  of  the  time  of  Charles  the  Second;  the  old 
housekeeper  shook  her  head  as  she  pointed  to  the  pic- 
ture, and  informed  me  that  this  lady  had  been  sadly 
addicted  to  cards,  and  had  gambled  away  a  great 
portion  of  the  family  estate,  among  which  was  that 
part  of  the  park  where  Shakespeare  and  his  comrades 
had  killed  the  deer.  The  lands  thus  lost  had  not  been 
entirely  regained  by  the  family  even  at  the  present 
day.  It  is  but  justice  to  this  recreant  dame  to  confess 
that  she  had  a  surpassingly  fine  hand  and  arm. 

The  picture  which  most  attracted  my  attention  was 
a  great  painting  over  the  fireplace,  containing  like- 
nesses of  Sir  Thomas  Lucy  and  his  family,  who  inhab- 
ited the  hall  in  the  latter  part  of  Shakespeare's  lifetime^ 

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392  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

I  at  first  thought  that  it  was  the  vindictive  knight 
himself,  but  the  housekeeper  assured  me  that  it  was 
his  son;  the  only  likeness  extant  of  the  former  being  an 
efiigy  upon  his  tomb  in  the  church  of  the  neighboring 
hamlet  of  Charlecot.*  The  picture  gives  a  lively  idea 
of  the  costume  and  manners  of  the  time.  Sir  Thomas 
is  dressed  in  ruff  and  doublet ;  white  shoes  with  roses  in 
them;  and  has  a  peaked  yellow,  or,  as  Master  Slender 
would  say, ' '  a  cane-colored  beard. ' '  His  lady  is  seated 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  picture,  in  wide  ruff  and 

*  This  effigy  is  in  white  marble,  and  represents  the  Knight  in 
complete  armor.  Near  him  lies  the  effigy  of  his  wife,  and  on  her 
tomb  is  the  following  inscription;  which,  if  really  composed  by  her 
husband,  places  him  quite  above  the  intellectual  level  of  Master 
Shallow: 

**Here  lyeth  the  Lady  Joyce  Lucy  wife  of  Sir  Thomas  Lucy  of 
Charlecot  in  ye  county  of  Warwick,  Knight,  Daughter  and  heir 
of  Thomas  Acton  of  Sutton  in  ye  county  of  Worcester  Esquire 
who  departed  out  of  this  wretched  world  to  her  heavenly  kingdom 
ye  lo  day  of  February  in  ye  yeare  of  our  Lord  God  1595  and  of  her 
age  60  and  three.  All  the  time  of  her  lyfe  a  true  and  faythf ul  ser- 
vant of  her  good  God,  never  detected  of  any  cryme  or  vice.  In  re- 
ligion most  sounde,  in  love  to  her  husband  most  faythful  and  true. 
In  friendship  most  constant;  to  what  in  trust  was  committed  unto 
her  most  secret  In  wisdom  excelling.  In  governing  of  her 
house,  bringing  up  of  youth  in  ye  fear  of  God  that  did  converse 
with  her  moste  rare  and  singular.  A  great  maintayner  of  hospi- 
tality. Greatly  esteemed  of  her  betters;  disliked  of  none  unless 
of  the  envyous.  When  all  is  spoken  that  can  be  saide  a  woman  so 
garnished  with  virtue  as  not  to  be  bettered  and  hardly  to  be 
equalled  by  any.  As  shee  lived  most  virtuously  so  shee  died  most 
Godly.  Set  downe  by  him  yt  best  did  knowe  what  hath  byn 
written  to  be  true.  *  Thomas  Lucye.  * ' 


yGoogk 


STRA  TFORD-ON-A  VON  393 

long  stomacher,  and  the  children  have  a  most  vener- 
able stiffness  and  formality  of  dress.  Hounds  and 
spaniels  are  mingled  in  the  family  group;  a  hawk  is 
seated  on  his  perch  in  the  foreground,  and  one  of  the 
children  holds  a  bow; — all  intimating  the  knight's 
skill  in  hunting,  hawking,  and  archery — so  indis- 
pensable to  an  accomplished  gentleman  in  those  days.* 
I  regretted  to  find  that  the  ancient  furniture  of  the 
hall  had  disappeared;  for  I  had  hoped  to  meet  with  the 
stately  elbow-chair  of  carved  oak,  in  which  the  country 
squire  of  former  days  was  wont  to  sway  the  sceptre 
of  empire  over  his  rural  domains;  and  in  which  it 
might  be  presumed  the  redoubted  Sir  Thomas  sat 
enthroned  in  awful  state  when  the  recreant  Shake- 
speare was  brought  before  him.  As  I  like  to  deck  out 
pictures  for  my  own  entertainment,  I  pleased  myself 
with  the  idea  that  this  very  hall  had  been  the  scene  of 
the  unlucky  bard's  examination  on  the  morning  after 
his  captivity  in  the  lodge.     I  fancied  to  myself  the 

*  Bishop  Earle,  speaking  of  the  country  gentleman  of  his  time, 
observes,  "his  housekeeping  is  seen  much  in  the  different  families 
of  dogs  and  serving-men  attendant  on  their  kennels;  and  the 
4eepness  of  their  throats  is  the  depth  of  his  discourse.  A  hawk 
he  esteems  the  true  burden  of  nobility,  and  is  exceedingly  ambi- 
tious to  seem  delighted  with  the  sport,  and  have  his  fist  gloved  with 
his  jesses. "  And  Gilpin,  in  his  description  of  a  Mr.  Hastings,  re- 
marks, "  he  kept  all  sorts  of  hounds  that  nm  buck,  fox,  hare,  otter, 
and  badger;  and  had  hawks  of  all  kinds  both  long  and  short 
winged.  His  great  hall  was  commonly  strewed  with  marrow- 
bones, and  full  of  hawk  perches,  hounds,  spaniels,  and  terriers. 
On  a  broad  hearth,  paved  with  brick,  lay  some  of  the  choicest 
terriers,  hounds,  and  spaniels. " 

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394  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

rural  potentate,  surrounded  by  his  body-guard  of 
butler,  pages,  and  blue-coated  servingmen,  with  their 
badges;  while  the  luckless  culprit  was  brought  in,  for- 
lorn and  chopfallen,  in  the  custody  of  gamekeepers, 
huntsmen,  and  whippers-in,  and  followed  by  a  rabble 
rout  of  country  clowns.  I  fancied  bright  faces  of 
ctuious  housemaids  peeping  from  the  half-opened 
doors;  while  from  the  gallery  the  fair  daughters  of  the 
knight  leaned  gracefully  forward,  eying  the  youthful 
prisoner  with  that  pity  "that  dwells  in  womanhood. " 
— ^Who  would  have  thought  that  this  poor  varlet,  thus 
trembling  before  the  brief  authority  of  a  country 
squire,  and  the  sport  of  rustic  boors,  was  soon  to 
become  the  delight  of  princes,  the  theme  of  all  tongues 
and  ages,  the  dictator  to  the  human  mind,  and  was  to 
confer  immortality  on  his  oppressor  by  a  caricature 
and  a  lampoon! 

I  was  now  invited  by  the  butler  to  walk  into  the  gar- 
den, and  I  felt  inclined  to  visit  the  orchard  and  arbor 
where  the  justice  treated  Sir  John  Falstaff  and  Cousin 
Silence  ''to  a  last  year's  pippin  of  his  own  grafting, 
with  a  dish  of  caraways";  but  I  had  already  spent  so 
much  of  the  day  in  my  ramblings  that  I  was  obliged  to 
give  up  any  further  investigations.  When  about  to 
take  my  leave  I  was  gratified  by  the  civil  entreaties  of 
the  houseke^er  and  butler  that  I  would  take 
refreshment :  an  instance  of  good  old  hospitality  which 
I  grieve  to  say,  we  castle-hunters  seldom  meet  with  in 
modern  days.  I  make  no  doubt  it  is  a  virtue  which 
the  present  representative  of  the  Lucys  inherits  from 

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STRATFORD-ON-AVON  395 

his  ancestors;  for  Shakespeare,  even  in  his  caricature, 
makes  Justice  Shallow  importunate  in  this  respect,  as 
witness  his  pressing  instances  to  Falstaflf. 

By  cock  and  pye,  sir,  you  shall  not  away  to-night  ...  I  will 
not  excuse  you;  you  shall  not  be  excused;  excuses  shall  not  be 
admitted;  there  is  no  excuse  shall  serve;  you  shall  not  be  excused 
....  Some  pigeons,  Davy;  a  couple  of  short-legged  hens;  a 
joint  of  mutton;  and  any  pretty  little  tiny  kickshaws,  tell 
William  Cook. 

I  now  bade  a  reluctant  farewell  to  the  old  hall.  My 
mind  had  become  so  completely  possessed  by  the 
imaginary  scenes  and  characters  connected  with  it, 
that  I  seemed  to  be  actually  living  among  them. 
Everything  brought  them  as  it  were  before  my  eyes; 
and  as  the  door  of  the  dining-room  opened,  I  almost 
expected  to  hear  the  feeble  voice  of  Master  Silence 
quavering  forth  his  favorite  ditty: 

*T  is  merry  in  hall,  when  beards  wag  all, 
And  welcome  merry  shrove-tide! 

On  returning  to  my  inn,  I  could  not  but  reflect  on  the 
singular  gift  of  the  poet;  to  be  able  thus  to  spread  the 
magic  of  his  mind  over  the  very  face  of  nature;  to  give 
to  things  and  places  a  charm  and  character  not  their 
own,  and  to  turn  this  ** working-day  world'*  into  a 
perfect  fairy  land.  He  is  indeed  the  true  enchanter 
whose  spell  operates,  not  upon  the  senses,  but  upon 
the  imagination  and  the  heart.  Under  the  wizard 
influence  of  Shakespeare  I  had  been  walking  all  day  in 

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396  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

a  complete  delusion.  I  had  surveyed  the  landscape 
through  the  prism  of  poetry,  which  tinged  every  object 
with  the  hues  of  the  rainbow.  I  had  been  surrounded 
with  fancied  beings;  with  mere  airy  nothings,  conjured 
up  by  poetic  power;  yet  which,-  to  me,  had  all  the 
charm  of  reality.  I  had  heard  Jaques  soliloquize 
beneath  his  oak;  had  beheld  the  fair  Rosalind  and  her 
companion  adventuring  through  the  woodlands;  .and 
above  all,  had  been  once  more  present  in  spirit  with 
fat  Jack  Falstaflf  and  his  contemporaries,  from  the 
august  Justice  Shallow,  down  to  the  gentle  Master 
Slender  and  the  sweet  Anne  Page.^  Ten  thousand 
honors  and  blessings  on  the  bard  who  has  thus  gilded 
the  dull  realities  of  life  with  innocent  illusions;  who  has 
spread  exquisite  and  unbought  pleasures  in  my  cheq- 
uered path;  and  beguiled  my  spirit  in  many  a  lonely 
hour,  with  all  the  cordial  and  cheerful  sympathies  of 
social  life ! 

As  I  crossed  the  bridge  over  the  Avon  on  my  return, 
I  paused  to  contemplate  the  distant  church  in  which 
the  poet  lies  buried,  and  could  not  but  exult  in  the 
malediction,  which  has  kept  his  ashes  undisturbed  in 
its  quiet  and  hallowed  vaults.  What  honor  could  his 
name  have  derived  from  being  mingled  in  dusty  com- 
panionship with  the  epitaphs  and  escutcheons  and 
venal  eulogiums  of  a  titled  multitude?  What  would 
a  crowded  comer  in  Westminster  Abbey  have  been, 
compared  with  this  reverend  pile,  which  seems  to 
stand  in  beautiful  loneliness  as  his  sole  mausoleum! 
The  solicitude  about  the  grave  may  be  but  the  off- 

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STRA  TFORD'ON-A  VON  397 

spring  of  an  over-wrought  sensibility;  but  human 
nature  is  made  up  of  foibles  and  prejudices;  and  its 
best  and  tenderest  affections  are  mingled  with  these 
factitious  feelings.  He  who  has  sought  renown  about 
the  worid,  and  has  reaped  a  full  harvest  of  wordly 
favor,  will  find,  after  all,  that  there  is  no  love,  no 
admiration,  no  applause,  so  sweet  to  the  soul  as  that 
which  springs  up  in  his  native  place.  It  is  there  that 
he  seeks  to  be  gathered  in  peace  and  honor  among  his 
kindred  and  his  early  friends.  And  when  the  weary 
heart  and  failing  head  begin  to  warn  him  that  the 
evening  of  life  is  drawing  on,  he  turns  as  fondly  as  does 
the  infant  to  the  mother's  arms,  to  sink  to  sleep  in  the 
bosom  of  the  scene  of  his  childhood. 

How  would  it  have  cheered  the  spirit  of  the  youthftd 
bard  when,  wandering  forth  in  disgrace  upon  a  doubt- 
ful world,  he  cast  back  a  heavy  look  upon  his  paternal 
home,  could  he  have  foreseen  that,  before  many  years, 
he  should  return  to  it  covered  with  renown;  that  his 
name  should  become  the  boast  and  glory  of  his  native 
place;  that  his  ashes  should  be  religiously  guarded  as 
its  most  precious  treasure ;  and  that  its  lessening  spire, 
on  which  his  eyes  were  fixed  in  tearful  contemplation, 
should  one  day  become  the  beacon,  towering  amidst 
the  gentle  landscape,  to  guide  the  literary  pilgrim  of 
every  nation  to  his  tomb! 


yGoogk 


TRAITS  OF  INDIAN  CHARACTER 

I  appeal  to  any  white  man  if  ever  he  entered  Logan's  cabin 
hungry,  and  he  gave  him  not  to  eat;  if  ever  he  came  cold  and 
naked,  and  he  clothed  him  not. 

Speech  of  an  Indian  Chief. 

There  is  something  in  the  character  and  habits  of 
the  North  American  savage,  taken  in  connection  with 
the  scenery  over  which  he  is  accustomed  to  range, 
its  vast  lakes,  boundless  forests,  majestic  rivers,  and 
trackless  plains,  that  is,  to  my  mind,  wonderfully 
striking  and  sublime.  He  is  formed  for  the  wilderness, 
as  the  Arab  is  for  the  desert.  His  nature  is  stem, 
simple,  and  enduring;  fitted  to  grapple  with  difficul- 
ties, and  to  support  privations.  There  seems  but 
little  soil  in  his  heart  for  the  support  of  the  kindly 
virtues;  and  yet,  if  we  would  but  take  the  trouble  to 
penetrate  through  that  proud  stoicism  and  habitual 
taciturnity,  which  lock  up  his  character  from  casual 
observation,  we  should  find  him  linked  to  his  fellow- 
man  of  civilized  life  by  more  of  those  sympathies  and 
affections  than  are  usually  ascribed  to  him. 

It  has  been  the  lot  of  the  unfortunate  aborigines  of 
America,  in  the  early  periods  of  colonization,  to  be 
doubly  wronged  by  the  white  men.  They  have  been 
dispossessed  of  their  hereditary  possessions  by  mer- 

398 

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TRAITS  OF  INDIAN  CHARACTER      399 

cenary  and  frequently  wanton  warfare:  and  their  char- 
acters have  been  traduced  by  bigoted  and  interested 
writers.  The  colonist  often  treated  them  like  beasts 
of  the  forest ;  and  the  author  has  endeavored  to  justify 
him  in  his  outrages.  The  former  found  it  easier  to  ex- 
terminate than  to  civilize;  the  latter  to  vilify  than  to 
discriminate.  The  appellations  of  savage  and  pagan 
were  deemed  suflScient  to  sanction  the  hostilities  of 
both;  and  thus  the  poor  wanderers  of  the  forest  were 
persecuted  and  defamed,  not  because  they  were 
guilty,  but  because  they  were  ignorant. 

The  rights  of  the  savage  have  seldom  been  properly 
appreciated  or  respected  by  the  white  man.  In 
peace  he  has  too  often  been  the  dupe  of  artftd 
traffic;  in  war  he  has  been  regarded  as  a  ferocious 
animal,  whose  life  or  death  was  a  question  of  mere 
precaution  and  convenience.  Man  is  cruelly  waste- 
ful of  life  when  his  own  safety  is  endangered,  and 
he  is  sheltered  by  impunity;  and  little  mercy  is 
to  be  expected  from  him,  when  he  feels  the  sting 
of  the  reptile  and  is  conscious  of  the  power  to 
destroy. 

The  same  prejudices,  which  were  indulged  thus 
early,  exist  in  common  circulation  at  the  present  day. 
Certain  learned  societies  have,  it  is  true,  with  laudable 
diligence,  endeavored  to  investigate  and  record  the 
real  characters  and  manners  of  the  Indian  tribes;  the 
American  government,  too,  has  wisely  and  humanely 
exerted  itself  to  inculcate  a  friendly  and  forbearing 
spirit  towards  them,  and  to  protect  them  from  fraud 

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400  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

and  injustice.*  The  current  opinion  of  the  Indian 
character,  however,  is  too  apt  to  be  formed  from  the 
miserable  hordes  which  infest  the  frontiers,  and  hang 
on  the  skirts  of  the  settlements.  These  are  too  com- 
monly composed  of  degenerate  beings,  corrupted  and 
enfeebled  by  the  vices  of  society,  without  being  bene- 
fited by  its  civilization.  That  proud  independence 
which  formed  the  main  pillar  of  savage  virtue  has 
been  shaken  down,  and  the  whole  moral  fabric  lies  in 
ruins.  Their  spirits  are  humiliated  and  debased  by  a 
sense  of  inferiority,  and  their  native  courage  cowed 
and  daunted  by  the  superior  knowledge  and  power  of 
their  enlightened  neighbors.  Society  has  advanced 
upon  them  like  one  of  those  withering  airs  that  will 
sometimes  breed  desolation  over  a  whole  region  of 
fertility.  It  has  enervated  their  strength,  multiplied 
their  diseases,  and  superinduced  upon  their  original 
barbarity  the  low  vices  of  artificial  life.  It  has  given 
them  a  thousand  superfluous  wants  whilst  it  has 
diminished  their  means  of  mere  existence.  It  has 
driven  before  it  the  animals  of  the  chase,  who  fly  from 
the  sound  of  the  axe  and  the  smoke  of  the  settlement, 
and  seek  refuge  in  the  depths  of  remoter  forests  and 

*The  American  government  has  been  indefatigable  in  its 
exertions  to  ameliorate  the  situation  of  the  Indians,  and  to  intro- 
duce among  them  the  arts  of  civilization,  and  civil  and  religious 
knowledge.  To  protect  them  from  the  frauds  of  the  white  traders 
no  purchase  of  land  from  them  by  individuals  is  permitted;  nor 
is  any  person  allowed  to  receive  lands  from  them  as  a  present, 
without  the  express  sanction  of  government.  These  precautions 
arc  strictly  enforced. 


yGoogk 


TRAITS  OF  INDIAN  CHARACTER      401 

yet  untrodden  wilds.  Thus  do  we  too  often  find  the 
Indians  on  our  frontiers  to  be  the  mere  wrecks  and 
remnants  of  once  powerful  tribes,  who  have  lingered  in 
the  vicinity  of  the  settlements,  and  sunk  into  preca- 
rious and  vagabond  existence.  Poverty,  repining  and 
hopeless  poverty,  a  canker  of  the  mind  unknown  in 
savage  life,  corrodes  their  spirits,  and  blights  every 
free  and  noble  quality  of  their  natures.  They  become 
drunken,  indolent,  feeble,  thievish,  and  pusillanimous. 
They  loiter  like  vagrants  about  the  settlements, 
among  spacious  dwellings  replete  with  elaborate  com- 
forts, which  only  render  them  sensible  of  the  com- 
parative wretchedness  of  their  own  condition.  Luxury 
spreads  its  ample  board  before  their  eyes;  but  they  are 
excluded  from  the  banquet.  Plenty  revels  over  the 
fields;  but  they  are  starving  in  the  midst  of  its  abtm- 
dance:  the  whole  wilderness  has  blossomed  into  a  gar- 
den; but  they  feel  as  reptiles  that  infest  it. 

How  different  was  their  state  while  yet  the  undis- 
puted lords  of  the  soil!  Their  wants  were  few,  and 
the  means  of  gratification  within  their  reach.  They 
saw  every  one  around  them  sharing  the  same  lot, 
enduring  the  same  hardships,  feeding  on  the  same 
aliments,  arrayed  in  the  same  rude  garments.  No 
roof  then  rose,  but  was  open  to  the  homeless  stranger; 
no  smoke  curled  among  the  trees,  but  he  was  welcome 
to  sit  down  by  its  fire,  and  join  the  htuiter  in  his  repast. 
"For,"  says  an  old  historian  of  New  England,  ** their 
life  is  so  void  of  care,  and  they  are  so  loving  also,  that 
they  make  use  of  those  things  they  enjoy  as  common 

•  Digitized  by  Google 


402  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

goods,  and  are  therein  so  compassionate,  that  rather 
than  one  should  starve  through  want,  they  would 
starve  all;  thus  they  pass  their  time  merrily,  not 
regarding  our  pomp,  but  are  better  content  with  their 
own,  which  some  men  esteem  so  meanly  of."  Such 
were  the  Indians,  whilst  in  the  pride  and  energy  of 
their  primitive  natures:  they  resembled  those  wild 
plants,  which  thrive  best  in  the  shades  of  the  forest, 
but  shrink  from  the  hand  of  cultivation,  and  perish 
beneath  the  influence  of  the  stm.' 

In  discussing  the  savage  character,  writers  have  been 
too  prone  to  indulge  in  vulgar  prejudice  and  passionate 
exaggeration,  instead  of  the  candid  temper  of  true 
philosophy.  They  have  not  sufficiently  considered 
the  peculiar  circumstances  in  which  the  Indians  have 
"been  placed,  and  the  peculiar  principles  tmder  which 
they  have  been  educated.  No  being  acts  more  rigidly 
from  rule  than  the  Indian.  His  whole  conduct  is 
regulated  according  to  some  general  maxims  early 
implanted  in  his  mind.  The  moral  laws  that  govern 
him  are,  to  be  sure,  but  few;  but  then  he  conforms  to 
them  all; — ^the  white  man  abounds  in  laws  of  religion, 
morals,  and  manners,  but  how  many  does  he  violate? 

A  frequent  grotmd  of  accusation  against  the  Indians 
is  their  disregard  of  treaties,  and  the  treachery  and 
wantonness  with  which,  in  time  of  apparent  peace, 
they  will  suddenly  fly  to  hostilities.  The  intercourse 
of  the  white  men  with  the  Indians,  however,  is  too 
apt  to  be  cold,  distrustful,  oppressive,  and  insulting. 
They  seldom  treat  them  with  that  confidence  and 

Digitized  by  CjOOQlC* 


TRAITS  OF  INDIAN  CHARACTER      403 

frankness  which  are  indispensable  to  real  friendship; 
nor  is  sufficient  caution  observed  not  to  offend  against 
those  feelings  of  pride  or  superstition,  which  often 
prompts  the  Indian  to  hostility  quicker  than  mere  con- 
siderations of  interest.  The  solitary  savage  feels 
silently,  but  acutely.  His  sensibilities  are  not  diffused 
over  so  wide  a  surface  as  those  of  the  white  man;  but 
they  run  in  steadier  and  deeper  channels.  His  pride, 
his  affections,  his  superstitions,  are  all  directed  towards 
fewer  objects;  but  the  wounds  inflicted  on  them  are 
proportionably  severe,  and  furnish  motives  of  hostility 
which  we  cannot  stifficiently  appreciate.  Where  a 
community  is  also  Umited  in  number,  and  forms  one 
great  patriarchal  family  as  in  an  Indian  tribe,  the 
injury  of  an  individual  is  the  injury  of  the  whole;  and 
the  sentiment  of  vengeance  is  almost  instantaneously 
diffused.  One  coimcil  fire  is  sufficient  for  the  discus- 
sion and  arrangement  of  a  plan  of  hostilities.  Here  all 
the  fighting  men  and  sages  assemble.  Eloquence  and 
superstition  combine  to  inflame  the  minds  of  the  war- 
riors. The  orator  awakens  their  martial  ardor,  and 
they  are  wrought  up  to  a  kind  of  religious  desperation, 
by  the  visions  of  the  prophet  and  the  dreamer. 

An  instance  of  one  of  those  sudden  exasperations, 
arising  from  a  motive  peculiar  to  the  Indian  character, 
is  extant  in  an  old  record  of  the  early  settlement  of 
Massachusetts.  The  planters  of  Plymouth  had  defaced 
the  monument  of  the  dead  at  Passonagessit,  and  had 
plundered  the  grave  of  the  Sachem's  mother  of  some 
skins  with  which  it  had  been  decorated.     The  Indian? 

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404  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

are  remarkable  for  the  reverence  which  they  entertain 
for  the  sepulchres  of  their  kindred.     Tribes  that  have 
passed  generations  exiled  from  the  abodes  of  their 
ancestors,  when  by  chance  they  have  been  travelling:  in 
the  vicinity,  have  been  known  to  turn  aside  from  the 
highway,  and,  guided  by  wonderfully  accurate  tradi- 
tion, have  crossed  the  country  for  miles  to  some 
tumulus,  buried  perhaps  in  woods,  where  the  bones  of 
their  tribe  were  anciently  deposited;  and  there  have 
passed  hours  in  silent  meditation.     Influenced  by  this 
sublime  and  holy  feeling,  the  Sachem,  whose  mother's 
tomb  had  been  violated,  gathered  his  men  together, 
and  addressed  them  in  the  following  beautifully  simple 
and  pathetic  harangue;  a  curious  specimen  of  Indian 
eloquence,  and  an  affecting  instanqe  of  filial  piety  in  a 
savage. 

**When  last  the  glorious  light  of  all  the  sky  was 
underneath  this  globe,  and  birds  grew  silent,  I  began 
to  settle,  as  my  custom  is,  to  take  repose.  Before 
mine  eyes  were  fast  closed,  methought  I  saw  a  vision, 
at  which  my  spirit  was  much  troubled;  and  trembling 
at  that  doleful  sight,  a  spirit  cried  aloud,  'Behold,  my 
son,  whom  I  have  cherished,  see  the  breasts  that  gave 
thee  suck,  the  hands  that  lapped  thee  warm,  and  fed 
thee  oft.  Canst  thou  forget  to  take  revenge  of  those 
wild  people  who  have  defaced  my  montmient  in  a 
despiteful  manner,  disdaining  our  antiquities  and 
honorable  customs?  See,  now,  the  Sachem's  grave 
lies  like  the  common  people,  defaced  by  an  ignoble 
race.     Thy  mother  doth  complain,  and  implores  thy 

Digitized  by  CjOOQ  iC 


TRAITS  OF  INDIAN  CHARACTER      405 

aid  against  this  thievish  people,  who  have  newly 
intruded  on  our  land.  If  this  be  suffered,  I  shall  not 
rest  quiet  in  my  everlasting  habitation.'  This  said, 
the  spirit  vanished  and  I,  all  in  a  sweat,  not  able 
scarce  to  speak,  began  to  get  some  strength,  and 
recollect  my  spirits  that  were  fled,  and  determined  to 
demand  your  coimsel  and  assistance." 

I  have  adduced  this  anecdote  at  some  length,  as  it 
tends  to  show  how  these  sudden  acts  of  hostility, 
which  have  been  attributed  to  caprice  and  perfidy, 
may  often  arise  from  deep  and  generous  motives, 
which  our  inattention  to  Indian  character  and  customs 
prevents  our  properly  appreciating. 

Another  groimd  of  violent  outcry  against  the 
Indians  is  their  barbarity  to  the  vanquished.  This 
had  its  origin  partly  in  policy  and  partly  in  supersti- 
tion. The  tribds,  though  sometimes  called  nations, 
were  never  so  formidable  in  their  numbers,  but  that 
the  loss  of  several  warriors  was  sensibly  felt;  this  was 
particularly  the  case  when  they  had  frequently  been 
engaged  in  warfare;  and  many  an  instance  occurs  in 
Indian  history,  where  a  tribe,  that  had  long  been 
formidable  to  its  neighbors,  has  been  broken  up  and 
driven  away,  by  the  capture  and  massacre  of  its 
principal  fighting  men.  There  was  a  strong  temp-* 
tation,  therefore,  to  the  victor  to  be  merciless;  not  so 
much  to  gratify  any  cruel  revenge,  as  to  provide  for 
future  security.  The  Indians  had  also  the  supersti- 
tious belief,  frequent  among  barbarous  nations,  and 
prevalent  also  among  the  ancients,  that  the  manes  of 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


406  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

their  friends  who  had  fallen  in  battle  were  soothed  by 
the  blood  of  the  captives.  The  prisoners,  however, 
who  are  not  thus  sacrificed,  are  adopted  into  their 
families  in  the  place  of  the  slain,  and  are  treated  with 
the  confidence  and  affection  of  relatives  and  friends; 
nay,  so  hospitable  and  tender  is  their  entertainment, 
that  when  the  alternative  is  offered  them,  they  will 
often  prefer  to  remain  with  their  adopted  brethren, 
rather  than  retiim  to  the  home  and  the  friends  of 
their  youth. 

The  cruelty  of  the  Indians  towards  their  prisoners 
has  been  heightened  since  the  colonization  of  the 
whites.  What  was  formerly  a  compliance  with  poUcy 
and  superstition  has  been  exasperated  into  a  gratifi- 
cation of  vengeance.  They  cannot  but  be  sensible 
that  the  white  men  are  the  usurpers  of  their  ancient 
dominion,  the  cause  of  their  degradation,  and  the 
gradual  destroyers  of  their  race.  They  go  forth  to 
battle,  smarting  with  injuries  and  indignities  which 
they  have  individually  suffered,  and  they  are  driven  to 
madness  and  despair  by  the  wide-spreading  desolation 
and  the  overwhelming  ruin  of  European  warfare. 
The  whites  have  too  frequently  set  them  an  example 
of  violence,  by  burning  their  villages,  and  laying  waste 
their  slender  means  of  subsistence;  and  yet  they 
wonder  that  savages  do  not  show  moderation  and 
magnanimity  towards  those  who  have  left  them  noth- 
ing but  mere  existence  and  wretchedness. 

We  stigmatize  the  Indians,  also,  as  cowardly  and 
treacherous,  because  they  use  stratagem  in  warfare,  ia 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


TRAITS  OF  INDIAN  CHARACTER      407 

preference  to  open  force;  but  in  this  they  are  fully  jus- 
tified by  their  rude  code  of  honor.  They  are  early 
taught  that  stratagem  is  praiseworthy;  the  bravest 
warrior  thinks  it  no  disgrace  to  lurk  in  silence,  and  take 
every  advantage  of  his  foe :  he  triumphs  in  the  superior 
craft  and  sagacity  by  which  he  has  been  enabled  to 
surprise  and  destroy  an  enemy.  Indeed,  man  is 
naturally  more  prone  to  subtility  than  open  valor, 
owing  to  his  physical  weakness  in  comparison  with 
other  animals.  They  are  endowed  with  natural  weap- 
ons of  defence:  with  horns,  with  tusks,  with  hoofs, 
and  talons;  but  man  has  to  depend  on  his  superior 
sagacity.  In  all  his  encotmters  with  these,  his  proper 
enemies,  he  resorts  to  stratagem;  and  when  he  per- 
versely turns  his  hostility  against  his  fellow-man,  he  at 
first  continues  the  same  subtle  mode  of  warfare. 

The  natural  principle  of  war  is  to  do  the  most  harm 
to  our  enemy  with  the  least  harm  to  ourselves;  and  this 
of  course  is  to  be  effected  by  stratagem.  That  chival- 
rous courage  which  induces  us  to  despise  the  sugges- 
tions of  prudence,  and  to  rush  in  the  face  of  certain 
danger,  is  the  offspring  of  society,  and  produced  by 
education.  It  is  honorable,  because  it  is  in  fact  the 
triumph  of  lofty  sentiment  over  an  instinctive  repug- 
nance to  pain,  and  over  those  yearnings  after  personal 
ease  and  security,  which  society  has  condemned  as 
ignoble.  It  is  kept  alive  by  pride  and  the  fear  of 
shame;  and  thus  the  dread  of  real  evil  is  overcome  by 
the  superior  dread  of  an  evil  which  exists  but  in  the 
imagination.     It  has  been  cherished  and  stimulated 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


408  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

also  by  various  means.  It  has  been  the  theme  of 
spirit-stirring  song  and  chivakous  story.  The  poet 
and  minstrel  have  delighted  to  shed  rotmd  it  the  splen- 
dors of  fiction ;  and  even  the  historian  has  forgotten  the 
sober  gravity  of  narration,  and  broken  forth  into  en- 
thusiasm and  rhapsody  in  its  praise.  Triumphs  and 
gorgeous  pageants  have  been  its  reward:  monuments, 
on  which  art  has  exhausted  its  skill,  and  opulence  its 
treasures,  have  been  erected  to  perpetuate  a  nation's 
gratitude  and  admiration.  Thus  artificially  excited, 
courage  has  risen  to  an  extraordinary  and  factitious 
degree  of  heroism:  and  arrayed  in  all  the  glorious 
**pomp  and  circtunstance  of  war,"  this  turbulent 
quality  has  even  been  able  to  eclipse  many  of  those 
quiet,  but  invaluable  virtues,  which  silently  ennoble 
the  human  character,  and  swell  the  tide  of  human 
happiness. 

But  if  courage  intrinsically  consists  in  the  defiance 
of  danger  and  pain,  the  life  of  the  Indian  is  a  continual 
exhibition  of  it.  He  lives  in  a  state  of  perpetual  hos- 
tility and  risk.  Peril  and  adventure  are  ccwigenial  to 
his  nature;  or  rather  seem  necessary  to  arouse  his 
faculties  and  to  give  an  interest  to  his  existence. 
Surroimded  by  hostile  tribes,  whose  mode  of  warfare 
is  by  ambush  and  surprisal,  he  is  always  prepared  for 
fight,  and  lives  with  his  weapons  in  his  hands.  As  the 
ship  careers  in  fearful  singleness  through  the  solitudes 
of  ocean; — as  the  bird  mingles  among  clouds  and 
storms,  and  wings  its  way,  a  mere  speck,  across  the 
pathless  fields  of  air; — so  the  Indian  holds  his  course. 

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TRAITS  OF  INDIAN  CHARACTER      409 

silent,  solitary,  but  undaunted,  through  the  boundless 
bosom  of  the  wilderness.  His  expeditions  may  vie  in 
distance  and  danger  with  the  pilgrimage  of  the 
devotee,  or  the  crusade  of  the  knight-errant.  He 
traverses  vast  forests,  exposed  to  the  hazards  of 
lonely  sickness,  of  lurking  enemies,  and  pining 
famine.  Stormy  lakes,  those  great  inland  seas,  are 
no  obstacles  to  his  wanderings:  in  his  light  canoe 
of  bark  he  sports  like  a  feather  on  their  wg^ves, 
and  darts,  with  the  swiftness  of  an  arrow,  down 
the  roaring  rapids  of  the  rivers.  His  very  sub- 
sistence is  snatched  from  the  midst  of  toil  and 
peril.  He  gains  his  food  by  the  hardships  and  dan- 
gers of  the  chase:  he  wraps  himself  in  the  spoils  of 
the  bear,  the  panther,  and  the  buffalo,  and  sleeps 
among  the  thimders  of  the  cataract. 

No  hero  of  ancient  or  modem  days  can  surpass  the 
Indian  in  his  lofty  contempt  of  death,  and  the  forti- 
tude with  which  he  sustains  its  cruellest  infliction. 
Indeed  we  here  behold  him  rising  superior  to  the  white 
man,  in  consequence  of  his  peculiar  education.  The 
latter  rushes  to  glorious  death  at  the  cannon's  mouth; 
the  former  calmly  contemplates  its  approach,  and 
triumphantly  endures  it,  amidst  the  varied  torments 
of  surrotmding  foes  and  the  protracted  agonies  of  fire. 
He  even  takes  a  pride  in  tatmting  his  persecutors,  and 
provoking  their  ingenuity  of  torture;  and  as  the 
devouring  flames  prey  on  his  very  vitals,  and  the  flesh 
shrinks  from  the  sinews,  he  raises  his  last  song  of 
triumph,  breathing  the  defiance  of  an  imconquered 


yGoogk 


4IO  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

heart,  and  invoking  the  spirits  of  his  fathers  to  witness 
that  he  dies  without  a  groan. 

'  Notwithstanding  the  obloquy  with  which  the  early 
historians  have  overshadowed  the  characters  of  the 
unfortunate  natives,  some  bright  gleams  occasionally 
break  through,  which  throw  a  degree  of  melancholy 
lustre  on  their  memories.  Facts  are  occasionally  to  be 
met  with  in  the  rude  annals  of  the  eastern  provinces, 
which,  though  recorded  with  the  coloring  of  prejudice 
and  bigotry,  yet  speak  for  themselves;  and  will  be 
dwelt  on  with  applause  and  sympathy,  when  prejudice 
shall  have  passed  away. 

In  one  of  the  homely  narratives  of  the  Indian  wars 
in  New  England,  there  is  a  touching  account  of  the 
desolation  carried  into  the  tribe  of  the  Pequod  Indians. 
Htimanity  shrinks  from  the  cold-blooded  detail  of 
indiscriminate  butchery.  In  one  place  we  read  of  the 
surprisal  of  an  Indian  fort  in  the  night,  when  the  wig- 
wams were  wrapped  in  flames,  and  the  miserable 
inhabitants  shot  down  and  slain  in  attempting  to 
escape,  **all  being  despatched  and  ended  in  the  course 
of  an  hour."  After  a  series  of  similar  transactions, 
'*our  soldiers,"  as  the  historian  piously  observes, 
"being  resolved  by  God's  assistance  to  make  a  final 
destruction  of  them,"  the  unhappy  savages  being 
himted  from  their  homes  and  fortresses,  and  pursued 
with  fire  and  sword,  a  scanty,  but  gallant  band,  the 
sad  remnant  of  the  Pequod  warriors,  with  their  wives 
and  children,  took  refuge  in  a  swamp. 

Btiming  with  indignation,  and  rendered  sullen  by 

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TRAITS  OF  INDIAN  CHARACTER      411 

despair;  with  hearts  bursting  with  grief  at  the  destruc- 
tion of  their  tribe,  and  spirits  galled  and  sore  at  the 
fancied  ignominy  of  their  defeat,  they  refused  to  ask 
their  lives  at  the  hands  of  an  instating  foe,  and  pre- 
ferred death  to  submission. 

As  the  night  drew  on  they  were  surrounded  in  their 
dismal  retreat,  so  as  to  render  escape  impracticable. 
Thus  situated,  their  enemy  **  plied  them  with  shot  all 
the  time,  by  which  means  many  were  killed  and  buried 
in  the  mire. "  In  the  darkness  and  fog  that  preceded 
the  dawn  of  day  some  few  broke  through  the  besiegers 
and  escaped  into  the  woods:  **the  rest  were  left  to  the 
conquerors,  of  which  many  were  killed  in  the  swamp, 
like  sullen  dogs  who  would  rather,  in  their  self- 
willedness  and  madness,  sit  still  and  be  shot  through, 
or  cut  to  pieces, "  than  implore  for  mercy.  When  the 
day  broke  upon  this  handful  of  forlorn  but  dauntless 
spirits,  the  soldiers,  we  are  told,  entering  the  swamp, 
**  saw  several  heaps  of  them  sitting  close  together,  upon 
whom  they  discharged  their  pieces,  laden  with  ten  or 
twelve  pistol  bullets  at  a  time,  putting  the  muzzles  of 
the  pieces  imder  the  bought,  within  a  few  yards  of 
them;  so  as,  besides  those  that  were  found  dead,  many 
more  were  killed  and  simk  into  the  mire,  and  never 
were  minded  more  by  friend  or  foe." 

Can  any  one  read  this  plain  imvamished  tale,  with- 
out admiring  the  stem  resolution,  the  unbending  pride, 
the  loftiness  of  spirit,  that  seemed  to  nerve  the  hearts 
of  these  self-taught  heroes,  and  to  raise  them  above 
the  instinctive  feelings  of  human  nature?     When  th 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


412  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

Gauls  laid  waste  the  city  of  Rome,  they  found  the 
senators  clothed  in  their  robes,  and  seated  with  stem 
tranquillity  in  their  curule  chairs;  in  this  manner  they 
suffered  death  without  resistance  or  even  supplication. 
Such  conduct  was,  in  them,  applauded  as  noble  and 
magnanimous;  in  the  hapless  Indian  it  was  reviled  as 
obstinate  and  sullen!.  How  truly  are  we  the  dupes  of 
show  and  circumstance!  How  different  is  virtue, 
clothed  in  purple  and  enthroned  in  state,  from  virtue, 
naked  and  destitute,  and  perishing  obscurely  in  a 
wilderness ! 

But  I  forbear  to  dwell  on  these  gloomy  pictures. 
The  eastern  tribes  have  long  since  disappeared;  the 
forests  that  sheltered  them  have  been  laid  low,  and 
scarce  any  traces  remain  of  them  in  the  thickly- 
settled  States  of  New  England,  excepting  here  and 
there  the  Indian  name  of  a  village  or  a  stream.  And 
such  must,  sooner  or  later,  be  the  fate  of  those  other 
tribes  which  skirt  the  frontiers,  and  have  occasionally 
been  inveigled  from  their  forests  to  mingle  in  the  wars 
of  white  men.  In  a  little  while,  and  they  will  go  the 
way  that  their  brethren  have  gone  before.  The  few 
hordes  which  still  linger  about  the  shores  of  Huron  and 
Superior,  and  the  tributary  streams  of  the  Mississippi, 
will  share  the  fate  of  those  tribes  that  once  spread  over 
Massachusetts  and  Connecticut,  and  lorded  it  along  the 
proud  banks  of  the  Hudson;  of  that  gigantic  race  said 
to  have  existed  on  the  borders  of  the  Susquehanna; 
and  of  those  various  nations  that  flourished  about  the 
"Potomac  and  the  Rappahailnock,  and  that  peopled 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


TRAITS  OF  INDIAN  CHARACTER      413 

the  forests  of  the  vast  valley  of  Shenandoah.  They 
will  vanish  like  a  vapor  from  the  face  of  the  earth ;  their 
very  history  will  be  lost  in  forgetfulness;  and  '*the 
places  that  now  know  them  will  know  them  no  more 
forever."  Or  if,  perchance,  some  dubious  memorial 
of  them  should  survive,  it  may  be  in  the  romantic 
dreams  of  the  poet,  to  people  in  imagination  his  glades 
and  groves,  like  the  faims  and  satyrs  and  sylvan 
deities  of  antiquity.  But  should  he  venture  upon  the 
dark  story  of  their  wrongs  and  wretchedness ;  should  he 
tell  how  they  were  invaded,  corrupted,  despoiled, 
driven  from  their  native  abodes  and  the  sepulchres  of 
their  fathers,  himted  like  wild  beasts  about  the  earth, 
and  sent  down  with  violence  and  butchery  to  the 
grave,  posterity  will  either  turn  with  horror  and 
incredulity  from  the  tale,  or  blush  with  indignation 
at  the  inhumanity  of  their  forefathers. — '*We  are 
driven  back,"  said  an  old  warrior,  ''until  we  can 
retreat  no  farther — our  hatchets  are  broken,  our  bows 
are  snapped,  our  fires  are  nearly  extinguished. — a 
little  longer,  and  the  white  man  will  cease  to  persecute 
us — ^for  we  shall  cease  to  exist!" 


yGoogk 


PHILIP  OF  POKANOKET 

AN    INDIAN   MEMOIR 

As  monumental  bronze  unchanged  his  look: 
A  soul  that  pity  touched  but  never  shook: 
Train'd  from  his  tree-rock'd  cradle  to  his  bier, 
The  fierce  extremes  of  good  and  ill  to  brook 
Impassive — fearing  but  the  shame  of  fear — 
A  stoic  of  the  woods — a  man  without  a  tear. 

Campbell. 

It  is  to  be  regretted  that  those  early  writers,  who 
treated  of  the  discovery  and  settlement  of  America, 
have  not  given  us  more  particular  and  candid  accounts 
of  the  remarkable  characters  that  flourished  in  savage 
Kfe.  The  scanty  anecdotes  which  have  reached  us 
are  full  of  peculiarity  and  interest;  they  furnish  us 
with  nearer  glimpses  of  human  nature,  and  show  what 
man  is  in  a  comparatively  primitive  state,  and  what 
he  owes  to  civilization.  There  is  something  of  the 
charm  of  discovery  in  lighting  upon  these  wild  and 
unexplored  tracts  of  human  nature;  in  witnessing,  as  it 
were,  the  native  growth  of  moral  sentiment,  and  p^- 
ceiving  those  generous  and  romantic  qualities  which 
have  been  artificially  cultivated  by  society,  vegetating 
in  spontaneous  hardihood  and  rude  magnificence. 

In  civilized  life,  where  the  happiness,  and  indeed 
414 


yGoogk 


PHILIP  OF  POKANOKET  415 

almost  the  existence,  of  man  depends  so  much  upon 
the  opinion  of  his  fellow-men,  he  is  constantly  acting  a 
studied  part.  The  bold  and  peculiar  traits  of  native 
character  are  refined  away,  or  softened  down  by  the 
leveUing  influence  of  what  is  termed  good-breeding; 
and  he  practises  so  many  petty  deceptions,  and  affects 
so  many  generous  sentiments,  for  the  purposes  of 
popularity,  that  it  is  difficult  to  distinguish  his  real 
from  his  artificial  character.  The  Indian,  on  the 
contrary,  free  from  the  restraints  and  refinements  of 
polished  life,  and,  in  a  great  degree,  a  solitary  and 
independent  being,  obeys  the  impulses  of  his  inclina- 
tion or  the  dictates  of  his  judgment;  and  thus  the 
attributes  of  his  nature,  being  freely  indulged,  grow 
singly  great  and  striking.  Society  is  like  a  lawn, 
where  every  roughness  is  smoothed,  every  bramble 
eradicated,  and  where  the  eye  is  delighted  by  the 
smiling  verdure  of  a  velvet  surface;  he,  however,  who 
would  study  nature  in  its  wildness  and  variety  must 
plunge  into  the  forest,  must  explore  the  glen,  must 
stem  the  torrent,  and  dare  the  precipice. 

These  reflections  arose  on  casually  looking  through  a 
volume  of  early  colonial  history,  wherein  are  recorded, 
with  great  bitterness,  the  outrages  of  the  Indians,  and 
their  wars  with  the  settlers  of  New  England.  It  is 
painful  to  perceive  even  from  these  partial  narratives 
how  the  footsteps  of  civilization  may  be  traced  in  the 
blood  of  the  aborigines;  how  easily  the  colonists  were 
moved  to  hostility  by  the  lust  of  conquest;  how  mer- 
ciless and  exterminating  was   their  warfare.    The 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


4i6  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

imagination  shrinks  at  the  idea,  how  many  intellectual 
beings  were  hunted  from  the  earth,  how  many  brave 
and  noble  hearts,  of  nature's  sterling  coinage,  were 
broken  down  and  trampled  in  the  dust! 

Such  was  the  fate  of  Philip  of  Pokanoket,  an 
Indian  warrior,  whose  name  was  once  a  terror  through- 
out Massachusetts  and  Connecticut.  He  was  the 
most  distinguished  of  a  number  of  contemporary 
Sachems  who  reigned  over  the  Pequods,  the  Narra- 
gansetts,  the  Wampanoags,  and  the  other  eastern 
tribes,  at  the  time  of  the  first  settlement  of  New  Eng- 
land; a  band  of  native  untaught  heroes,  who  made  the 
most  generous  struggle  of  which  human  nature  is 
capable;  fighting  to  the  last  gasp  in  the  cause  of  their 
country,  without  a  hope  of  victory  or  a  thought  of 
renown.  Worthy  of  an  age  of  poetry,  and  fit  subjects 
for  local  story  and  romantic  fiction,  they  have  left 
scarcely  any  authentic  traces  on  the  page  of  history, 
but  stalk,  like  gigantic  shadows,  in  the  dim  twilight  of 
tradition.* 

When  the  pilgrims,  as  the  Plymouth  settlers  are 
called  by  their  descendants,  first  took  refuge  on  the 
shores  of  the  New  World,  from  the  religious  persecu- 
tions of  the  Old,  their  situation  was  to  the  last  degree 
gloomy  and  disheartening.  Few  in  number,  and  that 
number  rapidly  perishing  away  through  sickness  and 
hardships;  sturotmded  by  a  howling  wilderness  and 

*  While  correcting  the  proof  sheets  of  this  article,  the  author  is 
informed  that  a  celebrated  English  poet  has  nearly  finished  an 
heroic  poem  on  the  story  of  Philip  of  Pokanoket. 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


PHILIP  OF  POKANOKET  417 

savage  tribes;  exposed  to  the  rigors  of  an  almost  arctic 
winter,  and  the  vicissitudes  of  an  ever-shifting  climate ; 
their  minds  were  filled  with  doleful  forebodings,  and 
nothing  preserved  them  from  sinking  into  despondency 
but  the  strong  excitement  of  religious  enthusiasm. 
In  this  forlorn  situation  they  were  visited  by  Massa- 
soit,  chief  Sagamore  of  the  Wampanoags,  a  powerful 
chief,  who  reigned  over  a  great  extent  of  coimtry. 
Instead  of  taking  advantage  of  the  scanty  number  of 
the  strangers,  and  expelling  them  from  his  territories, 
into  which  they  had  intruded,  he  seemed  at  once  to 
conceive  for  them  a  generous  friendship,  and  extended 
towards  them  the  rites  of  primitive  hospitality.  He 
came  early  in  the  spring  to  their  settlement  of  New 
Plymouth,  attended  by  a  mere  handful  of  followers, 
entered  into  a  solemn  league  of  peace  and  amity;  sold 
them  a  portion  of  the  soil,  and  promised  to  secure  for 
them  the  good-will  of  his  savage  allies.  Whatever 
may  be  said  of  Indian  perfidy,  it  is  certain  that  the 
integrity  and  good  faith  of  Massasoit  have  never  been 
impeached.  He  continued  a  firm  and  magnanimous 
friend  of  the  white  men;  suffering  them  to  extend  their 
possessions,  and  to  strengthen  themselves  in  the  land; 
and  betraying  no  jealousy  of  their  increasing  power 
and  prosperity.  Shortly  before  his  death  he  came 
once  more  to  New  Plymouth,  with  his  son  Alexander, 
for  the  ptupose  of  renewing  the  covenant  of  pea<ie,  and 
of  sectiring  it  to  his  posterity. 

At  this  conference  he  endeavored  to  protect  the 
religion  of  his  forefathers  from  the  encroaching  zeal 

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4i8  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

I 

of  the  missionaries;  and  stipulated  that  no  further 
attempt  should  be  made  to  draw  off  his  people  from 
their  ancient  faith ;  but,  finding  the  English  obstinately 
opposed  to  any  such  condition,  he  mildly  relinquished 
the  demand.  Almost  the  last  act  of  his  life  was  to 
bring  his  two  sons,  Alexander  and  Philip  (as  they  had 
been  named  by  the  English),  to  the  residence  of  a 
principal  settler,  recommending  mutual  kindness  and 
confidence;  and  entreating  that  the  same  love  and 
amity  which  had  existed  between  the  white  men 
and  himself  might  be  continued  afterwards  with  his 
children.  The  good  old  Sachem  died  in  peace,  and 
was  happily  gathered  to  his  fathers  before  sorrow 
came  upon  his  tribe;  his  children  remained  behind 
to  experience  the  ingratitude  of  white  men. 

His  eldest  son,  Alexander,  succeeded  him.  He  was 
of  a  quick  and  impetuous  temper,  and  proudly  tena- 
cious of  his  hereditary  rights  and  dignity.  The  in- 
trusive policy  and  dictatorial  conduct  of  the  strangers 
excited  his  indignation;  and  he  beheld  with  un- 
easiness their  exterminating  wars  with  the  neigh- 
boring tribes.  He  was  doomed  soon  to  incur  their 
hostility,  being  accused  of  plotting  with  the  Narra- 
gansetts  to  rise  against  the  English  and  drive  them 
from  the  land.  It  is  impossible  to  say  whether  this 
accusation  was  warranted  by  facts  or  was  grotmded  or 
mere  suspicion.  It  is  evident,  however,  by  the  violent 
and  overbearing  measures  of  the  settlers,  that  they  had 
by  this  time  begtm  to  feel  conscious  of  the  rapid 
Increase  of  their  power,  and  to  grow  harsh  and  in* 

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PHILIP  OF  POKANOKET  419 

considerate  in  their  treatment  of  the  natives.  They 
despatched  an  armed  force  to  seize  upon  Alexander, 
and  to  bring  him  before  their  courts.  He  was  traced 
to  his  woodland  haunts,  and  surprised  at  a  hunting 
house,  where  he  was  reposing  with  a  band  of  his 
followers,  unarmed,  after  the  toils  of  the  chase.  The 
suddenness  of  his  arrest,  and  the  outrage  offered  to  his 
sovereign  dignity,  so  preyed  upon  the  irascible  feelings 
of  this  proud  savage,  as  to  throw  him  into  a  raging 
fever.  He  was  permitted  to  return  home,  on  condition 
of  sending  his  son  as  a  pledge  for  his  reappearance;  but 
the  blow  he  had  received  was  fatal,  and  before  he  had 
reached  his  home  he  fell  a  victim  to  the  agonies  of  a 
wounded  spirit. 

The  successor  of  Alexander  was  Metacomet,  or  King 
Philip,  as  he  was  called  by  the  settlers,  on  account 
of  his  lofty  spirit  and  ambitious  temper.  These, 
together  with  his  well-known  energy  and  enterprise, 
had  rendered  him  an  object  of  great  jealousy  and 
apprehension,  and  he  was  accused  of  having  always 
cherished  a  secret  and  implacable  hostility  towards  the 
whites.  Such  may  very  probably,  and  very  naturally, 
have  been  the  case.  He  considered  them  as  originally 
but  mere  intruders  into  the  cotmtry,  who  had  pre- 
sumed upon  indulgence,  and  were  extending  an 
influence  baneful  to  savage  life.  He  saw  the  whole 
race  of  his  countrymen  melting  before  them  from  the 
face  of  the  earth;  their  territories  slipping  from  their 
hands,  and  their  tribes  becoming  feeble,  scattered,  and 
dependent.     It  may  be  said  that  the  soil  was  originally 

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420  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

ptirchased  by  the  settlers;  but  who  does  not  know  the 
nature  of  Indian  purchases,  in  the  early  periods  of 
colonization?  The  Europeans  always  made  thrifty 
bargains  through  their  superior  adroitness  in  traffic; 
and  they  gained  vast  accessions  of  territory  by  easily 
provoked  hostiUties.  An  uncultivated  savage  is 
never  a  nice  inquirer  into  the  refinements  of  law,  by 
which  an  injtiry  may  be  gradually  and  legally  inflicted. 
Leading  facts  are  all  by  which  he  judges;  and  it  was 
enough  for  Philip  to  know  that  before  the  intrusion  of 
the  Europeans  his  countrymen  were  lords  of  the  soil, 
and  that  now  they  were  becoming  vagabonds  in  the 
land  of  their  fathers. 

But  whatever  may  have  been  his  feelings  of  general 
hostility,  and  his  particular  indignation  at  the  treat- 
ment of  his  brother,  he  suppressed  them  for  the  pres- 
ent, renewed  the  contract  with  the  settlers,  and  re- 
sided peaceably  for  many  years  at  Pokanoket,  or,  as 
it  was  called  by  the  English,  Motmt  Hope,*  the 
ancient  seat  of  dominion  of  his  tribe.  Suspicions, 
however,  which  were  at  first  but  vague  and  indefinite, 
began  to  acquire  form  and  substance;  and  he  was  at 
length  charged  with  attempting  to  instigate  the 
various  eastern  tribes  to  rise  at  once,  and,  by  a 
simultaneous  effort,  to  throw  off  the  yoke  of  their 
oppressors.  It  is  difficult  at  this  distant  period  to 
assign  the  proper  credit  due  to  these  early  accusations 
against  the  Indians.     There  was  a  proneness  to  sus- 

*  Now  Bristol,  Rhode  Island. 

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PHILIP  OF  POKANOKET  421 

picion,  and  an  aptness  to  acts  of  violence,  on  the  part 
of  the  whites,  that  gave  weight  and  importance  to 
every  idle  tale.  Informers  abounded  where  tale- 
bearing met  with  cotmtenance  and  reward;  and  the 
sword  was  readily  tmsheathed  when  its  success  was 
certain,  and  it  carved  out  empire. 

The  only  positive  evidence  on  record  against  Philip 
is  the  accusation  of  one  Sausaman,  a  renegado  Indian, 
whose  natural  cunning  had  been  quickened  by  a 
partial  education  which  he  had  received  among  the 
settlers.  He  changed  his  faith  and  his  allegiance  two 
or  three  times,  with  a  faciUty  that  evinced  the  loose- 
ness of  his  principles.  He  had  acted  for  some  time  as 
Philip's  confidential  secretary  and  counsellor,  and  had 
enjoyed  his  bounty  and  protection.  Finding,  how- 
ever, that  the  clouds  of  adversity  were  gathering 
round  his  patron,  he  abandoned  his  service  and  went 
over  to  the  whites;  and,  in  order  to  gain  their  favor, 
charged  his  former  benefactor  with  plotting  against 
their  safety.  A  rigorous  investigation  took  place. 
Philip  and  several  of  his  subjects  submitted  to  be 
examined,  but  nothing  was  proved  against  them. 
The  settlers,  however,  had  now  gone  too  far  to  retract; 
they'  had  previously  determined  that  Philip  was  a 
dangerous  neighbor;  they  had  publicly  evinced  their 
distrust;  and  had  done  enough  to  insure  his  hostility; 
according,  therefore,  to  the  usual  mode  of  reasoning  in 
these  cases,  his  destruction  had  become  necessary  to 
their  security.  Sausaman,  the  treacherous  informer, 
was  shortly  afterwards  found  dead,  in  a  pond,  having 

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422  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

fallen  a  victim  to  the  vengeance  of  his  tribe.  Three 
Indians,  one  of  whom  was  a  friend  and  counsellor  of 
Philip,  were  apprehended  and  tried,  and,  on  the  testi- 
mony of  one  very  questionable  witness,  were  con- 
demned and  executed  as  murderers. 

This  treatment  of  his  subjects,  and  ignominious 
punishment  of  his  friend,  outraged  the  pride  and 
exasperated  the  passions  of  Philip.  The  bolt  which 
had  fallen  thus  at  his  very  feet  awakened  him  to  the 
gathering  storm,  and  he  determined  to  trust  himself  no 
longer  in  the  power  of  the  white  men.  The  fate  of  his 
insulted  and  broken-hearted  brother  still  rankled  in  his 
mind;  and  he  had  a  further  warning  in  the  tragical 
story  of  Miantonimo,  a  great  Sachem  of  the  Narra- 
gansetts,  who,  after  manfully  facing  his  accusers  before 
a  tribtmal  of  the  colonists,  exculpating  himself  from  a 
charge  of  conspiracy,  and  receiving  assurances  of 
amity,  had  been  perfidiously  dispatched  at  their 
instigation.  Philip,  therefore,  gathered  his  fighting 
men  about  him;  persuaded  all  strangers  that  he  could 
to  join  his  cause;  sent  the  women  and  children  to  the 
Narragansetts  for  safety;  aiid  wherever  he  appeared 
was  continually  stirrotmded  by  armed  warriors. 

When  the  two  parties  were  thus  in  a  state  of  distrust 
and  irritation,  the  least  spark  was  stifficient  to  set  them 
in  a  flame.  The  Indians,  having  weapons  in  their 
hands,  grew  mischievous,  and  committed  various  petty 
depredations.  In  one  of  their  maraudings  a  warrior 
was  fired  on  and  kiUed  by  a  settler.  This  was  the 
signal  for  open  hostilities;  the  Indians  pressed  to 

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PHILIP  OF  POKANOKET  423 

revenge  the  death  of  their  comrade,  and  the  alarm  of 
war  resotmded  through  the  Plymouth  colony. 

In  the  early  chronicles  of  these  dark  and  melancholy 
times  we  meet  with  many  indications  of  the  diseased 
state  of  the  pubHc  mind.  The  gloom  of  religious 
abstraction,  and  the  wildness  of  their  situation,  among* 
trackless  forests  and  savage  tribes,  had  disposed  the 
colonists  to  superstitious  fancies,  and  had  filled  their 
imaginations  with  the  frightful  chimeras  of  witchcraft 
and  spectrology.  They  were  much  given  also  to  a 
belief  in  omens.  The  troubles  with  Philip  and  his 
Indians  were  preceded,  we  are  told,  by  a  variety  of 
those  awful  warnings  which  forenm  great  and  public 
calamities.  The  perfect  form  of  an  Indian  bow 
appeared  in  the  air  at  New  Plymouth,  which  was 
looked  upon  by  the  inhabitants  as  a  "prodigious 
apparition."  At  Hadley,  Northampton,  and  other 
towns  in  their  neighborhood,  "was  heard  the  report  of 
a  great  piece  of  ordnance,  with  a  shaking  of  the  earth 
and  a  considerable  echo.  '**  Others  were  alarmed  on  a 
still,  sunshiny  morning,  by  the  discharge  of  gims  and 
muskets;  bullets  seemed  to  whistle  past  them,  and  the 
noise  of  drums  resounded  in  the  air,  seeming  to  pass 
away  to  the  westward;  others  fancied  that  they  heard 
the  galloping  of  horses  over  their  heads;  and  certain 
monstrous  births,  which  took  place  about  the  time, 
filled  the  superstitious  in  some  towns  with  doleful 
forebodings.     Many  of  these  portentous  sights  and 

*  The  Rev.  Increase  Mather's  History. 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


424  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

sounds  may  be  ascribed  to  natural  phenomena:  to  the 
northern  lights  which  occur  vividly  in  those  latitudes; 
the  meteors  which  explode  in  the  air;  the  casual  rush- 
ing of  a  blast  through  the  top  branches  of  the  forest; 
the  crash  of  fallen  trees  or  disrupted  rocks;  and  to 
those  other  uncouth  sounds  and  echoes  which  will 
sometimes  strike  the  ear  so  strangely  amidst  the  pro- 
found stillness  of  woodland  solitudes.  These  may 
have  startled  some  melancholy  imaginations,  may 
have  been  exaggerated  by  the  love  of  the  marvellous, 
and  listened  to  with  that  avidity  with  which  we  devour 
whatever  is  fearful  and  mysterious.  The  universal 
currency  of  these  superstitious  fancies,  and  the  grave 
record  made  of  them  by  one  of  the  learned  men  of  the 
day,  are  strongly  characteristic  of  the  times. 

The  nature  of  the  contest  that  ensued  was  such  as 
too  often  distinguishes  the  warfare  between  civilized 
men  and  savages.  On  the  part  of  the  whites  it  was 
conducted  with  superior  skill  and  success;  but  with  a 
wastefulness  of  the  blood,  and  a  disregard  of  the 
natural  rights  of  their  antagonists:  on  the  part  of  the 
Indians  it  was  waged  with  the  desperation  of  men 
fearless  of  death,  and  who  had  nothing  to  expect  from 
peace,  but  humiliation,  dependence,  and  decay. 

The  events  of  the  war  are  transmitted  to  us  by  a 
worthy  clergyman  of  the  time;  who  dwells  with  horror 
and  indignation  on  every  hostile  act  of  the  Indians, 
however  justifiable,  whilst  he  mentions  with  applause 
the  most  sanguinary  atrocities  of  the  whites.  Philip 
is  reviled  as  a  murderer  and  a  traitor;  without  con- 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


PHILIP  OF  POKANOKET  425 

sideling  that  he  was  a  true  bom  prince,  gallantly 
fighting  at  the  head  of  his  subjects  to  avenge  the 
wrongs  of  his  family ;  to  retrieve  the  tottering  power  of 
his  line;  and  to  deliver  his  native  land  from  the  oppres- 
sion of  usurping  strangers. 

The  project  of  a  wide  and  simultaneous  revolt, 
if  such  had  really  been  formed,  was  worthy  of  a 
capacious  mind,  and,  had  it  not  been  prematurely 
discovered,  might  have  been  overwhelming  in  its 
consequences.  The  war  that  actually  broke  out  was 
but  a  war  of  detail,  a  mere  succession  of  casual  ex- 
ploits and  imconnected  enterprises.  Still  it  sets  forth 
the  military  genius  and  daring  prowess  of  Philip ;  and 
wherever,  in  the  prejudiced  and  passionate  narrations 
that  have  been  given  of  it,  we  can  arrive  at  simple 
facts,  we  find  him  displaying  a  vigorous  mind,  a  fer- 
tility of  expedients,  a  contempt  of  suffering  and  hard- 
ship, and  an  unconquerable  resolution,  that  command 
our  sympathy  and  applause. 

Driven  from  his  paternal  domains  at  Mount  Hope, 
he  threw  himself  into  the  depths  of  those  vast  and 
trackless  forests  that  skirted  the  settlements,  and  were 
almost  impervious  to  anything  but  a  wild  beast,  or  an 
Indian.  Here  he  gathered  together  his  forces,  1  ke  the 
storm  accumulating  its  stores  of  mischief  in  the  bosom 
of  the  thimder-cloud,  and  would  suddenly  emerge  at  a 
time  and  place  least  expected,  carrying  havoc  and 
dismay  into  the  villages.  There  were  now  and  then 
indications  of  these  impending  ravages,  that  filled  the 
minds  of  the  colonists  with  awe  and  apprehension. 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


426  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

The  report  of  a  distant  gun  would  perhaps  be  heard 
from  the  solitary  woodland,  where  there  was  known  to 
be  no  white  man;  the  cattle  which  had  been  wandering 
in  the  woods  would  sometimes  return  home  wounded; 
or  an  Indian  or  two  would  be  seen  lurking  about  the 
skirts  of  the  forests,  and  suddenly  disappearing;  as  the 
lightning  will  sometimes  be  seen  playing  silently  about 
the  edge  of  the  cloud  that  is  brewing  up  the  tempest. 
Though  sometimes  pursued  and  even  stirrounded  by 
the  settlers,  yet  Philip  as  often  escaped  almost  miracu- 
lously from  their  toils,  and,  pltmging  into  the  wilder- 
ness, would  be  lost  to  all  search  or  inquiry,  until  he 
again  emerged  at  some  far  distant  quarter,  laying  the 
country  desolate.  Among  his  strongholds,  were  the 
great  swamps  or  morasses,  which  extend  in  some  parts 
of  New  England;  composed  of  loose  bogs  of  deep  black 
mud;  perplexed  with  thickets,  brambles,  rank  weeds, 
the  shattered  and  mouldering  trunks  of  fallen  trees-, 
overshadowed  by  lugubrious  hemlocks.  The  uncer- 
tain footing  and  the  tangled  mazes  of  these  shaggy 
wilds  rendered  them  almost  impracticable  to  the 
white  man,  though  the  Indian  could  thrid  their  laby- 
rinths with  the  agility  of  a  deer.  Into  one  of  these, 
the  great  swamp  of  Pocasset  Neck,  was  Philip  once 
driven  with  a  band  of  his  followers.  The  English  did 
not  dare  to  pursue  him,  fearing  to  venture  into  these 
dark  and  frightful  recesses,  where  they  might  perish  in 
fens  and  miry  pits,  or  be  shot  down  by  lurking  foes. 
They  therefore  invested  the  entrance  to  the  Neck,  and 
began  to  build  a  fort,  with  the  thought  of  starving  out 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


PHILIP  OF  POKANOKET  427 

the  foe;  but  Philip  and  his  warriors  wafted  themselves 
on  a  raft  over  an  arm  of  the  sea,  in  the  dead  of  the 
night,  leaving  the  women  and  children  behind;  and 
escaped  away  to  the  westward,  kindling  the  flames 
of  war  among  the  tribes  of  Massachusetts  and  the 
Nipmuck  country,  and  threatening  the  colony  of 
Connecticut. 

In  this  way  Philip  became  a  theme  of  universal 
apprehension.  The  mystery  in  which  he  was  envel- 
oped exaggerated  his  real  terrors.  He  was  an  evil 
that  walked  in  darkness;  whose  coming  none  could 
foresee,  and  against  which  none  knew  when  to  be  on 
the  alert.  The  whole  cotmtry  abotmded  with  rumors 
and  alarms.  Philip  seemed  almost  possessed  of 
ubiquity;  for,  in  whatever  part  of  the  widely-extended 
frontier  an  irruption  from  the  forest  took  place,  Philip 
was  said  to  be  its  leader.  Many  superstitious  notions 
also  were  circulated  concerning  him.  He  was  said  to 
deal  in  necromancy,  and  to  be  attended  by  an  old 
Indian  witch  or  prophetess,  whom  he  consulted,  and 
who  assisted  him  by  her  charms  and  incantations. 
This  indeed  was  frequently  the  case  with  Indian 
chiefs;  either  through  their  own  credulity,  or  to  act 
upon  that  of  their  followers:  and  the  influence  of  the 
prophet  and  the  dreamer  over  Indian  superstition  has 
been  fully  evidenced  in  recent  instances  of  savage 
warfare. 

At  the  time  that  Philip  effected  his  escape  from 
Pocasset,  his  fortunes  were  in  a  desperate  condition. 
His  forces  had  been  thinned  by  repeated  fights,  and  he 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


428  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

had  lost  almost  the  whole  of  his  resources.  In  this 
time  of  adversity  he  found  a  faithful  friend  in  Canon- 
chet,  chief  Sachem  of  all  the  Narragansetts.  He  was 
the  son  and  heir  of  Miantonimo,  the  great  Sachem, 
who,  as  already  mentioned,  after  an  honorable  acquit- 
tal of  the  charge  of  conspiracy,  had  been  privately  put 
to  death  at  the  perfidious  instigations  of  the  settlers. 
'*He  was  the  heir,"  says  the  old  chronicler,  "of  all  his 
father's  pride  and  insolence,  as  well  as  of  his  malice 
towards  the  English"; — ^he  certainly  was  the  heir  of 
his  insults  and  injuries,  and  the  legitimate  avenger  of 
his  murder.  Though  he  had  forborne  to  take  an 
active  part  in  this  hopeless  war,  yet  he  received  Philip 
and  his  broken  forces  with  open  arms;  and  gave  them 
the  most  generous  countenance  and  support.  This  at 
once  drew  upon  him  the  hostility  of  the  English;  and 
it  was  determined  to  strike  a  signal  blow  that  should 
involve  both  the  Sachems  in  one  common  ruin.  A 
great  force  was,  therefore,  gathered  together  from 
Massachusetts,  Plymouth,  and  Connecticut,  and  was 
sent  into  the  Narragansett  country  in  the  depth  of 
winter,  when  the  swamps,  being  frozen  and  leafless, 
could  be  traversed  with  comparative  facility,  and 
would  no  longer  afford  dark  and  impenetrable  fast- 
nesses to  the  Indians. 

Apprehensive  of  attack,  Canonchet  had  conveyed 
the  greater  part  of  his  stores,  together  with  the  old, 
the  infirm,  the  women  and  children  of  his  tribe,  to  a 
strong  fortress;  where  ho  and  Philip  had  likewise 
drawn  up  the  flower  of  their  forces.     This  fortress, 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


PHILIP  OF  POKANOKET  429 

deemed  by  the  Indians  impregnable,  was  situated  upon 
a  rising  moimd  or  kind  of  island,  of  five  or  six  acres,  in 
the  midst  of  a  swamp ;  it  was  constructed  with  a  degree 
of  judgment  and  skill  vastly  superior  to  what  is 
usually  displayed  in  Indian  fortification,  and  indicative 
of  the  martial  genius  of  these  two  chieftains. 

Guided  by  a  renegado  Indian,  the  English  pene- 
trated, through  December  snows,  to  this  stronghold 
and  came  upon  the  garrison  by  surprise.  The  fight 
was  fierce  and  tumultuous.  The  assailants  were 
repulsed  in  their  first  attack,  and  several  of  their 
bravest  oflBcers  were  shot  down  in  the  act  of  storming 
the  fortress  sword  in  hand.  The  assault  was  renewed 
with  greater  success.  A  lodgment  was  effected. 
The  Indians  were  driven  from  one  post  to  another. 
They  disputed  their  grotmd  inch  by  inch,  fighting 
with  the  fury  of  despair.  Most  of  their  veterans  were 
cut  to  pieces;  and  after  a  long  and  bloody  battle, 
Philip  and  Canonchet,  with  a  handful  of  surviving 
warriors,  retreated  from  the  fort,  and  took  refuge  in 
the  thickets  of  the  surroimding  forest. 

The  victors  set  fire  to  the  wigwams  and  the  fort;  the 
whole  was  soon  in  a  blaze;  many  of  the  old  men,  the 
women  and  the  children  perished  in  the  flames.  This 
last  outrage  overcame  even  the  stoicism  of  the  savage. 
The  neighboring  woods  resounded  with  the  yells  of 
rage  and  despair,  uttered  by  the  fugitive  warriors,  as 
they  beheld  the  destruction  of  their  dwellings,  and 
heard  the  agonizing  cries  of  their  wives  and  offspring. 
''The  burning  of  the  wigwams,"  says  a  contemporary 

Digitized  by  VjOOQ  IC 


430  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

writer,  "the  shrieks  and  cries  of  the  women  and  chil- 
dren, and  the  yelling  of  the  warriors,  exhibited  a  most 
horrible  and  affecting  scene,  so  that  it  greatly  moved 
some  of  the  soldiers."  The  same  writer  cautiously 
adds,  "they  were  in  much  doubt  then,  and  afterwards 
seriously  inquired,  whether  burning  their  enemies 
alive  could  be  consistent  with  humanity,  and  the 
benevolent  principles  of  the  Gospel/** 

The  fate  of  the  brave  and  generous  Canonchet  is 
worthy  of  particular  mention :  the  last  scene  of  his  life  is 
one  of  the  noblest  instances  on  record  of  Indian  magna- 
nimity. 

Broken  down  in  his  power  and  resources  by  this 
signal  defeat,  yet  faithful  to  his  ally,  and  to  the  hapless 
cause  which  he  had  espoused,  he  rejected  all  overtures 
of  peace,  offered  on  condition  of  betraying  PI  ilip,  and 
his  followers,  and  declared  that  "he  would  fight  it  out 
to  the  last  man,  rather  than  become  a  servant  to  the 
English.*'  His  home  being  destroyed;  his  coimtry 
harassed  and  laid  waste  by  the  incursions  of  the 
conquerors;  he  was  obliged  to  wander  away  to  the 
banks  of  the  Connecticut;  where  he  formed  a  rallying 
point  to  the  whole  body  of  western  Indians,  and  laid 
waste  several  of  the  English  settlements. 

Easly  in  the  spring  he  departed  on  a  hazardous  expe- 
dition, with  only  thirty  chosen  men,  to  penetrate  to 
Seaconck,  in  the  vicinity  of  Mount  Hope,  and  to  pro- 
cure seed  com  to  plant  for  the  sustenance  of  his  trooi)s« 

*  MS.  of  the  Rev.  W.  Ruggles. 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


PHILIP  OF  POKANOKET  431. 

This  little  band  of  adventurers  had  passed  safely 
through  the  Pequod  country,  and  were  in  the  centre  of 
the  Narragansett,  resting  at  some  wigwams  near  Paw- 
tucket  River,  when  an  alarm  was  given  of  an  approach- 
ing enemy. — Having  but  seven  men  by  him  at  the 
time,  Canonchet  despatched  two  of  them  to  the  top  of 
a  neighboring  hill,  to  bring  intelligence  of  the  foe. 

Panic-struck  by  the  appearance  of  a  troop  of  Eng- 
lish and  Indians  rapidly  advancing,  they  fled  in 
breathless  terror  past  their  chieftain,  without  stop- 
ing  to  inform  him  of  the  danger.  Canonchet  sent 
another  scout,  who  did  the  same.  He  then  sent  two 
more,  one  of  whqm,  hurrying  back  in  confusion  and 
affright,  told  him  that  the  whole  British  army  was 
at  hand.  Canonchet  saw  there  was  no  choice  but 
immediate  flight.  He  attempted  to  escape  roimd  the 
hill,  but  was  perceived  and  hotly  pursued  by  the 
hostile  Indians  and  a  few  of  the  fleetest  of  the  English. 
Finding  the  swiftest  pursuer  close  upon  his  heels,  he 
threw  oflf,  first  his  blanket,  then  his  silver-laced  coat 
and  belt  of  peag,  by  which  his  enemies  knew  him  to  be 
Canonchet,  and  redoubled  the  eagerness  of  pursuit. 

At  length,  in  dashing  through  the  river,  his  foot 
slipped  upon  a  stone,  and  he  fell  so  deep  as  to  wet  his 
i:un.  This  accident  so  struck  him  with  despair,  that, 
as  he  afterwards  confessed,  ''his  heart  and  his  bowels 
ttuTied  within  him,  and  he  became  like  a  rotten  stick, 
void  of  strength." 

To  such  a  degree  was  he  tmnerved,  that,  being 
seized  by  a  Pequod  Indian  within  a  short  distance  of 

Digitized  by  CjOOQ  iC 


432  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

the  river,  he  made  no  resistance,  though  a  man  of 
great  vigor  of  body  and  boldness  of  heart.  But  on 
being  made  prisoner  the  whole  pride  of  his  spirit  arose 
within  him;  and  from  that  moment,  we  find,  in  the 
anecdotes  given  by  his  enemies,  nothing  but  repeated 
flashes  of  elevated  and  prince-like  heroism.  Being 
questioned  by  one  of  the  EngUsh  who  first  came  up 
with  him,  and  who  had  not  attained  his  twenty-second 
year,  the  proud-hearted  warrior,  looking  with  lofty 
contempt  upon  his  youthful  countenance,  replied, 
''You  are  a  child — ^you  cannot  tinderstand  matters  of 
war — ^let  your  brother  or  your  chief  come — ^him  will  I 
answer." 

Though  repeated  offers  were  made  to  him  of  his  Kfe, 
on  condition  of  submitting  with  his  nation  to  the  Eng- 
lish, yet  he  rejected  them  with  disdain,  and  refused  to 
send  any  proposals  of  the  kind  to  the  great  body  of  his 
subjects;  saying  that  he  knew  none  of  them  would 
comply.  Being  reproached  with  his  breach  of  faith 
towards  the  whites;  his  boast  that  he  would  not 
deUver  up  a  Wampanoag  nor  the  paring  of  a  Wam- 
panoag's  nail;  and  his  threat  that  he  would  btun  the 
EngHsh  alive  in  their  houses;  he  disdained  to  justify 
himself,  haughtily  answering  that  others  were  as  for- 
ward for  the  war  as  himself,  and  "he  desired  to  hear  no 
more  thereof." 

So  noble  and  unshaken  a  spirit,  so  true  a  fidelity  to 
his  cause  and  his  friend,  might  have  touched  the  feel- 
ings of  the  generous  and  the  brave;  but  Canonchet 
was  an  Indian;  a  being  towards  whom  war  had  no 


yGoogk 


PHILIP  OF  POKANOKET  433 

courtesy,  humanity  no  law,  religion  no  compassion — 
he  was  condemned  to  die.  The  last  words  of  him  that 
are  recorded  are  worthy  the  greatness  of  his  soul. 
When  sentence  of  death  was  passed  upon  him,  he 
observed  "  that  he  liked  it  well,  for  he  should  die  before 
his  heart  was  soft,  or  he  had  spoken  anything  im- 
worthy  of  himself.  '*  His  enemies  gave  him  the  death 
of  a  soldier,  for  he  was  shot  at  Stoningham,  by  three 
young  Sachems  of  his  own  rank. 

The  defeat  at  the  Narragansett  fortress,  and  the 
death  of  Canonchet,  were  fatal  blows  to  the  fortimes 
of  King  Philip.  He  made  an  ineffectual  attempt 
to  raise  a  head  of  war,  by  stirring  up  the  Mohawks 
to  take  arms;  but  though  possessed  of  the  native 
talents  of  a  statesman,  his  arts  were  counteracted 
by  the  superior  arts  of  his  enlightened  enemies,  and 
the  terror  of  their  warlike  skill  began  to  subdue  the 
resolution  of  the  neighboring  tribes.  The  tmf  ortunate 
chieftain  saw  himself  daily  stripped  of  power,  and 
his  ranks  rapidly  thinning  arotmd  him.  Some  were 
suborned  by  the  whites;  others  fell  victims  to  hunger 
and  fatigue,  and  to  the  frequent  attacks  by  which  they 
were  harassed.  His  stores  were  all  captured;  his 
chosen  friends  were  swept  away  from  before  his  eyes; 
his  imcle  was  shot  down  by  his  side;  his  sister  was 
carried  into  captivity;  and  in  one  of  his  narrow  es- 
capes he  was  compelled  to  leave  his  beloved  wife  and 
only  son  to  the  mercy  of  the  enemy.  ' '  His  ruin, ' '  says 
the  historian,  "being  thus  gradually  carried  on,  his 
misery  was  not  prevented,  but  augmented  thereby; 

a8 

Digitized  by  CjOOQ  IC 


434  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

being  himself  made  acquainted  with  the  sense  and 
experimental  feeling  of  the  captivity  of  his  children, 
loss  of  friends,  slaughter  of  his  subjects,  bereavement 
of  all  family  relations,  and  being  stripped  of  all  out- 
ward comforts,  before  his  own  life  should  be  taken 
away.** 

To  fill  up  the  measure  of  his  misfortunes,  his  own 
followers  began  to  plot  against  his  life,  that  by 
sacrificing  him  they  might  purchase  dishonorable 
safety.  Through  treachery  a  number  of  his  faithful 
adherents,  the  subjects  of  Wetamoe,  an  Indian  prin- 
cess of  Pocasset,  a  near  kinswoman  and  confederate  of 
Philip,  were  betrayed  into  the.  hands  of  the  enemy. 
Wetamoe  was  among  them  at  the  time  and  attempted 
to  make  her  escape  by  crossing  a  neighboring  river: 
either  exhausted  by  swimming,  or  starved  by  cold  and 
hunger,  she  was  foimd  dead  and  naked  near  the  water 
side.  But  persecution  ceased  not  at  the  grave. 
Even  death,  the  refuge  of  the  wretched,  where  the 
wicked  commonly  cease  from  troubling,  was  no  pro- 
tection to  this  outcast  female,  whose  great  crime  was 
affectionate  fidelity  to  her  kinsman  and  her  friend. 
Her  corpse  was  the  object  of  unmanly  and  dastardly 
vengeance;  the  head  was  severed  from  the  body  and 
set  upon  a  pole,  and  was  thus  exposed  at  Taunton,  to 
the  view  of  her  captive  subjects.  They  immediately 
recognized  the  features  of  their  unfortunate  queen, 
and  were  so  affected  at  this  barbarous  spectacle  that 
we  are  told  they  broke  forth  into  the  "most  horrible 
and  diabolical  lamentations.** 


yGoogk 


PHILIP  OF  POKANOKET  435 

However  Philip  had  borne  up  against  the  compli- 
cated miseries  and  misfortunes  that  surrounded  him, 
the  treachery  of  his  followers  seemed  to  wring  his 
heart  and  reduce  him  to  despondency.  It  is  said  that 
"he  never  rejoiced  afterwards,  nor  had  success  in  any 
of  his  designs.  **  The  spring  of  hope  was  broken — the 
ardor  of  enterprise  was  extinguished — he  looked 
arotmd,  and  all  was  danger  and  darkness ;  there  was  no 
eye  to  pity,  nor  any  arm  that  could  bring  deliverance. 
With  a  scanty  band  of. followers,  who  still  remained 
true  to  his  desperate  fortimes,  the  unhappy  Philip 
wandered  back  to  the  vicinity  of  Mount  Hope,  the 
ancient  dwelling  of  his  fathers.  Here  he  lurked  about, 
like  a  spectre,  among  the  scenes  of  former  power  and 
prosperity,  now  bereft  of  home,  of  family  and  friend. 
There  needs  no  better  picture  of  his  destitute  and 
piteous  situation,  than  that  furnished  by  the  homely 
pen  of  the  chronicler,  who  is  unwarily  enlisting  the 
feelings  of  the  reader  in  favor  of  the  hapless  warrior 
whom  he  reviles.  ''Philip,**  he  says,  "like  a  savage 
wild  beast,  having  been  hunted  by  the  English  forces 
through  the  woods,  above  a  hundred  miles  backward 
and  forward,  at  last  was  driven  to  his  own  den  upon 
Mount  Hope,  where  he  retired,  with  a  few  of  his  best 
friends,  into  a  swamp,  which  proved  but  a  prison  to 
keep  him  fast  till  the  messengers  of  death  came  by 
divine  permission  to  execute  vengeance  upon  him." 

Even  in  this  last  refuge  of  desperation  and  despair,  a 
sullen  grandeur  gathers  round  his  memory.  We 
picture  him  to  ourselves  seated  among  his  careworn 

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436  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

followers,  brooding  in  silence  over  his  blasted  fortunes, 
and  acquiring  a  savage  sublimity  from  the  wildness 
and  dreariness  of  his  lurking-place.  Defeated,  but 
not  dismayed — crushed  to  the  earth,  but  not  humil- 
iated— he  seemed  to  grow  more  haughty  beneath 
disaster,  and  to  experience  a  fierce  satisfaction  in 
draining  the  last  dregs  of  bitterness.  Little  minds 
are  tamed  and  subdued  by  misfortune;  but  great 
minds  rise  above  it.  The  very  idea  of  submission 
awakened  the  fury  of  Philip,  and  he  smote  to  death 
one  of  his  followers  who  proposed  an  expedient  of 
peace.  The  brother  of  the  victim  made  his  escape, 
and  in  revenge  betrayed  the  retreat  of  his  chieftain. 
A  body  of  white  men  and  Indians  were  immediately 
despatched  to  the  swamp  where  Philip  lay  crouched, 
glaring  with  fury  and  despair.  Before  he  was  aware  of 
their  approach,  they  had  begun  to  surround  him.  In 
a  little  while  he  saw  five  of  his  trustiest  followers  laid 
dead  at  his  feet;  all  resistance  was  vain;  he  rushed 
forth  from  his  covert,  and  made  a  headlong  attempt 
to  escape,  but  was  shot  through  the  heart  by  a  rene- 
gado  Indian  of  his  own  nation. 

Such  is  the  scanty  story  of  the  brave,  but  unfortu- 
nate King  Philip;  persecuted  while  living,  slandered 
and  dishonored  when  dead.  If,  however,  we  consider 
even  the  prejudiced  anecdotes  furnished  us  by  his 
enemies,  we  may  perceive  in  them  traces  of  amiable 
and  lofty  character  sufficient  to  awaken  sympathy  for 
his  fate,  and  respect  for  his  memory.  We  find  that, 
amidst  all  the  harassing  cares  and  ferocious  oassdons  o^ 

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PHILIP  OF  POKANOKET  437 

constant  warfare,  he  was  alive  to  the  softer  feelings  of 
connubial  love  and  paternal  tenderness,  and  to  the 
generous  sentiment  of  friendship.  The  captivity  of 
his  "beloved  wife  and  only  son"  are  mentioned  with 
exultation  as  causing  him  poignant  misery:  the  death 
of  any  near  friend  is  triumphantly  recorded  as  a  new 
blow  on  his  sensibilities;  but  the  treachery  and  deser- 
tion of  many  of  his  followers,  in  whose  affections  he 
had  confided,  is  said  to  have  desolated  his  heart,  and 
to  have  bereaved  him  of  all  further  comfort.  He  was 
a  patriot  attached  to  his  native  soil — a  prince  true  to 
his  subjects,  and  indignant  of  their  wrongs — a  soldier, 
daring  in  battle,  firm  in  adversity,  patient  of  fatigue, 
of  hunger,  of  every  variety  of  bodily  suffering,  and 
ready  to  perish  in  the  cause  he  had  espoused.  Proud 
of  heart,  and  with  an  untameable  love  of  natural 
liberty,  he  preferred  to  enjoy  it  among  the  beasts  of 
the  forests  or  in  the  dismal  and  famished  recesses  of 
swamps  and  morasses,  rather  than  bow  his  haughty 
spirit  to  submission,  and  live  dependent  and  despised 
in  the  ease  and  luxury  of  the  settlements.  With 
heroic  qualities  and  bold  achievements  that  would 
have  graced  a  civilized  warrior,  and  have  rendered 
him  the  theme  of  the  poet  and  the  historian,  he  lived  a 
wanderer  and  a  fugitive  in  his  native  land,  and  went 
down,  like  a  lonely  bark  foundering  amid  darkness 
and  tempest — ^without  a  pitying  eye  to  weep  his  fall, 
or  a  friendly  hand  to  record  his  struggle. 


yGoogk 


JOHN  BULL 

An  old  song,  made  by  an  aged  old  pate, 
Of  an  old  worshipful  gentleman  who  had  a  great  estate, 
That  kept  a  brave  old  house  at  a  botmtiful  rate, 
And  an  old  porter  to  relieve  the  poor  at  his  gate. 
With  an  old  study  fill'd  full  of  learned  old  books, 
With  an  old  reverend  chaplain,  you  might  know  him  by  his  looks. 
With  an  old  buttery  hatch  worn  quite  off  the  hooks, 
And  an  old  kitchen  that  maintained  half-a-dozen  old  cooks. 
Like  an  old  courtier,  etc. 

Old  Song. 

There  is  no  species  of  humor  in  which  the  English 
more  excel,  than  that  which  consists  in  caricattuing 
and  giving  ludicrous  appellations,  or  nicknames.  In 
this  way  they  have  whimsically  designated,  not  merely 
individuals,  but  nations;  and,  in  their  fondness  for 
pushing  a  joke,  they  have  not  spared  even  themselves. 
One  would  think  that,  in  personifying  itself,  a  nation 
would  be  apt  to  picture  something  grand,  heroic,  and 
imposing;  but  it  is  characteristic  of  the  peculiar  humor 
of  the  English,  and  of  their  love  for  what  is  blunt, 
comic,  and  familiar,  that  they  have  embodied  their 
national  oddities  in  the  figure  of  a  sturdy,  corpulent 
old  fellow,  with  a  three-cornered  hat,  red  waistcoat, 
leather  breeches,  and  stout  oaken  cudgel.  Thus  they 
have  taken  a  singular  delight  in  exhibiting  their  most 
private  foibles  in  a  laughable  point  of  view;  and  have 

438 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


JOHN  BULL  439 

been  so  successful  *n  their  delineations,  that  there  is 
scarcely  a  being  in  actual  existence  more  absolutely 
present  to  the  public  mind  than  that  eccentric  per- 
sonage, John  Bull. 

Perhaps  the  continual  contemplation  of  the  charac- 
ter thus  drawn  of  them  has  contributed  to  fix  it  upon 
the  nation;  and  thus  to  give  reality  to  what  at  first 
may  have  been  painted  in  a  great  measure  from  the 
imagination.  Men  are  apt  to  acquire  peculiarities 
chat  are  continually  ascribed  to  them.  The  conmion 
orders  of  English  seem  wonderfully  captivated  with 
the  beau  idSal  which  they  have  formed  of  John  Bull, 
and  endeavor  to  act  up  to  the  broad  caricature  that  is 
perpetually  before  their  eyes.  Ufiluckily,  they  some- 
times make  their  boasted  Bullism  an  apology  for  their 
prejudice  or  grossness;  and  this  I  have  especially 
noticed  among  those  tnily  homebred  and  genuine  sons 
of  the  soil  who  have  never  migrated  beyond  the  sound 
of  Bow-bells.  If  one  of  these  should  be  a  little  un- 
couth in  speech,  and  apt  to  utter  impertinent  truths 
he  confesses  that  he  is  a  real  John  Bull,  and  always 
speaks  his  mind.  If  he  now  and  then  flies  into  an 
unreasonable  burst  of  passion  about  trifles,  he  ob- 
serves, that  John  Bull  is  a  choleric  old  blade,  but 
then  his  passion  is  over  in  a  moment,  and  he  bears  no 
malice.  If  he  betrays  a  coarseness  of  taste,  and  an 
insensibility  to  foreign  refinements,  he  thanks  heaven 
for  his  ignorance — ^he  is  a  plain  John  Bull,  and  has  no 
relish  for  frippery  and  nicknacks.  His  very  proneness 
to  be  gulled  by  strangers,  and  to  pay  extravagantly 

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440  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

for  absurdities,  is  excused  under  the  plea  of  munifi- 
cence— for  John  is  always  more  generous  than  wise. 

Thus,  under  the  name  of  John  Bull,  he  will  contrive 
to  argue  eveyy  fault  into  a  merit,  and  will  frankly 
convict  himself  of  being  the  honestest  fellow  in 
existence. 

However  little,  therefore,  the  character  may  have 
suited  in  the  first  instance,  it  has  gradually  adapted 
itself  to  the  nation,  or  rather  they  have  adapted  them- 
selves to  each  other;  and  a  stranger  who  wishes  to 
study  English  peculiarities,  may  gather  much  valuable 
information  from  the  inntunerable  portraits  of  John 
Bull,  as  exhibited  in  the  windows  of  the  caricature- 
shops.  Still,  however,  he  is  one  of  those  fertile 
humorists,  that  are  continually  throwing  out  new 
portraits,  and  presenting  different  aspects  from 
different  points  of  view;  and,  often  as  he  has  been 
described,  I  cannot  resist  the  temptation  to  give  a 
sUght  sketch  of  him,  such  as  he  has  met  my  eye. 

John  Bull,  to  all  appearance,  is  a  plain  downright 
matter-of-fact  fellow,  with  much  less  of  poetry  about 
him  than  rich  prose.  There  is  Uttle  of  romance  in  his 
nature,  but  a  vast  deal  of  strong  natural  feeling.  He 
excels  in  humor  more  than  in  wit;  is  jolly  rather  than 
gay;  melancholy  rather  than  morose;  can  easily  be 
moved  to  a  sudden  tear,  or  surprised  into  a  broad 
laugh;  but  he  loathes  sentiment,  and  has  no  turn  for 
light  pleasantry.  He  is  a  boon  companion,  if  you 
iVllow  him  to  have  his  htunor,  and  to  talk  about  him- 
relf;  and  he  will  stand  by  a  friend  in  a  quarrel, 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


JOHN  BULL  441; 

with  life  and  purse,  however  soundly  he  may  be 
cudgelled. 

In  this  last  respect,  to  tell  the  truth,  he  has  a  propen- 
sity to  be  somewhat  too  ready.  He  is  a  busy-minded 
personage,  who  thinks  not  merely  for  himself  and 
family,  but  for  all  the  country  rotmd,  and  is  most 
generously  disposed  to  be  everybody's  champion.  He 
is  continually  volimteering  his  services  to  settle  his 
neighbors'  affairs,  and  takes  it  in  great  dudgeon  if  they 
engage  in  any  matter  of  consequence  without  asking 
his  advice;  though  he  seldom  engages  in  any  friendly 
office  of  the  kind  without  finishing  by  getting  into  a 
squabble  with  all  parties,  and  then  railing  bitterly  at 
their  ingratitude.  He  unluckily  took  lessons  in  his 
youth  in  the  noble  science  of  defence,  and  having 
accomplished  himself  in  the  use  of  his  limbs  and  his 
weapons,  and  become  a  perfect  master  at  boxing  and 
cudgel-play,  he  has  had  a  troublesome  life  of  it  ever 
since.  He  cannot  hear  of  a  quarrel  between  the  most 
distant  of  his  neighbors,  but  he  begins  incontinently  to 
fumble  with  the  head  of  his  cudgel,  and  consider 
whether  his  interest  or  honor  does  not  require  that  he 
should  meddle  in  the  broil.  Indeed  he  has  extended 
his  relations  of  pride  and  policy  so  completely  over  the 
whole  cotmtry,  that  no  event  can  take  place,  without 
infringing  some  of  his  finely-sptm  rights  and  dignities. 
Couched  in  his  little  domain,  with  these  filaments 
stretching  forth  in  every  direction,  he  is  like  some 
choleric,  bottle-bellied  old  spider,  who  has  woven  his 
web  over  a  whole  chamber,  so  that  a  fly  cannot  buzz. 


yGoogk 


442  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

nor  a  breeze  blow,  without  startling  his  repose,  and 
causing  him  to  sally  forth  wrathfully  from  his  den. 

Though  really  a  good-hearted,  good-tempered  old 
fellow  at  bottom,  yet  he  is  singularly  fond  of  being  in 
the  midst  of  contention.  It  is  one  of  his  peculiarities, 
however,  that  he  only  relishes  the  beginning  of  an 
affray;  he  always  goes  into  a  fight  with  alacrity,  but 
comes  out  of  it  grtimbling  even  when  victorious;  and 
though  no  one  fights  with  more  obstinacy  to  carry  a 
contested  point,  yet,  when  the  battle  is  over,  and  he 
comes  to  the  reconciliation,  he  is  so  much  taken  up 
with  the  mere  shaking  of  hands,  that  he  is  apt  to  let 
his  antagonist  pocket  all  that  they  have  been  quarrel- 
ling about.  It  is  not,  therefore,  fighting  that  he 
ought  so  much  to  be  on  his  guard  against,  as  making 
friends.  It  is  difficult  to  cudgel  him  out  of  a  farthing; 
but  put  him  in  a  good  humor,  and  you  may  bargain 
him  out  of  all  the  money  in  his  pocket.  He  is  like  a 
stout  ship,  which  will  weather  the  roughest  storm 
uninjured,  but  roll  its  masts  overboard  in  the  suc- 
ceeding calm. 

He  is  a  little  fond  of  playing  the  magnifico  abroad ; 
of  pulling  out  a  long  purse;  flinging  his  money  bravely 
about  at  boxing  matches,  horse  races,  cock  fights,  and 
carrying  a  high  head  among ' '  gentlemen  of  the  fancy ' ' ; 
but  immediately  after  one  of  these  fits  f  extravagance, 
he  will  be  taken  with  violent  qualms  of  economy;  stop 
short  at  the  most  trivial  expenditure;  talk  desperately 
of  being  ruined  and  brought  upon  the  parish;  and,  in 
such  moods,  will  not  pay  the  smallest  tradesman's  bill, 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


JOHN  BULL  443 

without  violent  altercation.  He  is  in  fact  the  most 
punctual  and  discontented  paymaster  in  the  world; 
drawing  his  coin  out  of  his  breeches  pocket  with 
infinite  reluctance;  paying  to  the  uttermost  farthing, 
but  accompanying  every  guinea  with  a  growl. 

With  all  his  talk  of  economy,  however,  he  is  a 
bountiful  provider,  and  a  hospitable  housekeeper. 
His  economy  is  of  a  whimsical  kind,  its  chief  object 
being  to  devise  how  he  may  aflford  to  be  extravagant; 
for  he  will  begrudge  himself  a  beefsteak  and  pint  of 
port  one  day,  that  he  may  roast  an  ox  whole,  broach  a 
hogshead  of  ale,  and  treat  all  his  neighbors  on  the 
next. 

His  domestic  establishment  is  enormously  expen- 
sive: not  so  much  from  any  great  outward  parade,  as 
from  the  great  constmiption  of  solid  beef  and  pudding; 
the  vast  ntmiber  of  followers  he  feeds  and  clothes;  an<f 
his  singular  disposition  to  pay  hugely  for  small  ser- 
vices. He  is  a  most  kind  and  indulgent  master,  and, 
provided  his  servants  humor  his  peculiarities,  flatter 
his  vanity  a  little  now  and  then,  and  do  not  peculate 
grossly  on  him  before  his  face,  they  may  manage  him 
to  perfection.  Everything  that  lives  on  him  seems  to 
thrive  and  grow  fat.  His  house-servants  are  well 
paid,  and  pampered,  and  have  little  to  do.  His 
horses  are  sleek  and  lazy,  and  prance  slowly  before 
his  state  carriage;  and  his  house-dogs  sleep  quietly 
about  the  door,  and  will  hardly  bark  at  a  house- 
breaker. 

His  family  mansion  is  an  old  castellated  manor* 

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444  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

house,  gray  with  age,  and  of  a  most  venerable,  though 
weather-beaten  appearance.  It  has  been  built  upon 
no  regular  plan,  but  is  a  vast  accumulation  of  parts, 
erected  in  various  tastes  and  ages.  The  centre  bears 
evident  traces  of  Saxon  architecture,  and  is  as  solid  as 
ponderous  stone  and  old  English  oak  can  make  it. 
Like  all  the  relics  of  that  style,  it  is  ftdl  of  obscure 
passages,  intricate  mazes,  and  dusky  chambers;  and 
though  these  have  been  partially  lighted  up  in  modem 
days,  yet  there  are  many  places  where  you  must  still 
grope  in  the  dark.  Additions  have  been  made  to  the 
original  edifice  from  time  to  time,  and  great  alterations 
have  taken  place;  towers  and  battlements  have  been 
erected  during  wars  and  tumults :  wings  built  in  time 
of  peace;  and  out-houses,  lodges,  and  offices,  nm  up 
according  to  the  whim  or  convenience  of  different 
generations,  until  it  has  become  one  of  the  most 
spacious,  rambling  tenements  imaginable.  An  entire 
wing  is  taken  up  with  the  family  chapel,  a  reverend 
pile,  that  must  have  been  exceedingly  sumptuous,  and, 
indeed,  in  spite  of  having  been  altered  and  simplified 
at  various  periods,  has  still  a  look  of  solemn  religious 
pomp.  Its  walls  within  are  stored  with  the  monu- 
ments of  John's  ancestors;  and  it  is  snugly  fitted  up 
with  soft  cushions  and  well-lined  chairs,  where  such  of 
his  family  as  are  inclined  to  church  services,  may  doze 
comfortably  in  the  discharge  of  their  duties. 

To  keep  up  this  chapel  has  cost  John  much  money; 
but  he  is  stanch  in  his  religion,  and  piqued  in  his  zeal, 
^om  the  circtimstance  that  many  dissenting  chapels 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


JOHN  BULL  445 

have  been  erected  in  his  vicinity,  and  several  of  his 
neighbors,  with  whom  he  has  had  quarrels,  are  strong 
papists. 

To  do  the  duties  of  the  chapel  he  maintains,  at  a 
large  expense,  a  pious  and  portly  family  chaplain. 
He  is  a  most  learned  and  decorous  personage,  and  a 
truly  well-bred  Christian,  who  always  backs  the  old 
gentleman  in  his  opinions,  winks  discreetly  at  his 
little  peccadilloes,  rebukes  the  children  when  refrac- 
tory, and  is  of  great  use  in  exhorting  the  tenants  to 
read  their  Bibles,  say  their  prayers,  and,  above  all,  to 
pay  their  rents  punctually,  and  without  grumbling. 

The  family  apartments  are  in  a  very  antiquated 
taste,  somewhat  heavy,  and  often  inconvenient,  but 
full  of  the  solemn  magnificence  of  former  times;  fitted 
up  with  rich,  though  faded  tapestry,  unwieldy  furni- 
ture, and  loads  of  massy  gorgeous  old  plate.  The 
vast  fireplaces,  ample  kitchens,  extensive  cellars,  and 
sumptuous  banqueting  halls,  all  speak  of  the  roaring 
hospitality  of  days  of  yore,  of  which  the  modem 
festivity  at  the  manor-house  is  but  a  shadow.  Ther^ 
are,  however,  complete  suites  of  rooms  apparently 
deserted  and  time-worn;  and  towers  and  turrets  that 
are  tottering  to  decay;  so  that  in  high  winds  there  is 
danger  of  their  tiunbling  about  the  ears  of  the  house- 
hold. 

John  has  frequently  been  advised  to  have  the  old 
edifice  throughly  overhauled ;  and  to  have  some  of  the 
useless  parts  pulled  down,  and  the  others  strengthened 
with  their  materials;  but  the  old  gentleman  always 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


446  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

grows  testy  on  this  subject.  He  swears  the  house  is  an 
excellent  house — that  it  is  tight  and  weather-proof, 
and  not  to  be  shaken  by  tempests — that  it  has  stood 
for  several  hundred  years,  and,  therefore,  is  not  likely 
to  tiunble  down  now — that  as  to  its  being  inconven- 
ient, his  family  is  accustomed  to  the  inconveniences, 
and  would  not  be  comfortable  without  them — ^that  as 
to  its  unwieldy  size  and  irregular  construction,  these 
result  from  its  being  the  growth  of  centuries,  and 
being  improved  by  the  wisdom  of  every  generation — 
that  an  old  family,  like  his,  requires  a  large  house  to 
dwell  in;  new,  upstart  families  may  live  in  modem 
cottages  and  snug  boxes;  but  an  old  English  family 
should  inhabit  an  old  English  manor-house.  If  you 
point  out  any  part  of  the  building  as  superfluous,  he 
insists  that  it  is  material  to  the  strength  or  decoration 
of  the  rest,  and  the  harmony  of  the  whole;  and  swears 
that  the  parts  are  so  built  into  each  other,  that  if  you 
pull  down  one,  you  run  the  risk  of  having  the  whole 
about  your  ears. 

The  secret  of  the  matter  is,  that  John  has  a  great 
disposition  to  protect  and  patronize.  He  thinks  it 
indispensable  to  the  dignity  of  an  ancient  and  honor- 
able family,  to  be  boimteous  in  its  appointments,  and 
to  be  eaten  up  by  dependents;  and  so,  partly  from 
pride,  and  partly  from  kind-heartedness,  he  makes  it  a 
rule  always  to  give  shelter  and  maintenance  to  his 
superannuated  servants. 

The  consequence  is,  that,  like  many  other  venerable 
family  establishments,  his  manor  is  encumbered  by  old 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


JOHN  BULL  447 

retainers  whom  he  cannot  turn  off,  and  an  old  style 
which  he  cannot  lay  down.  His  mansion  is  Uke  a 
great  hospital  of  invalids,  and,  with  all  its  magnitude, 
is  not  a  whit  too  large  for  its  inhabitants.  Not  a  nook 
or  comer  but  is  of  use  in  housing  some  useless  person- 
age. Groups  of  veteran  beef -eaters,  gouty  pensioners, 
and  retired  heroes  of  the  buttery  and  the  larder,  are 
seen  lolling  about  its  walls,  crawling  over  its  lawns, 
dozing  tmder  its  trees,  or  stmning  themselves  upon  the 
benches  at  its  doors.  Every  office  and  out-house  is 
garrisoned  by  these  supernumeraries  and  their  fam- 
ilies; for  they  are  amazingly  prolific,  and  when  they 
die  off,  are  sure  to  leave  John  a  legacy  of  himgry 
mouths  to  be  provided  for.  A  mattock  cannot  be 
struck  against  the  most  mouldering  tumble-down 
tower,  but  out  pops,  from  some  cranny  or  loop-hole, 
the  gray  pate  of  some  superannuated  hanger-on,  who 
has  lived  at  John's  expense  all  his  life,  and  makes  Jie 
most  grievous  outcry  at  their  pulling  down  the  roof 
from  over  the  head  of  a  worn-out  servant  of  the 
family.  This  is  an  appeal  that  John's  honest  heart 
never  can  withstand;  so  that  a  man,  who  has  faithfully 
eaten  his  beef  and  pudding  all  his  life,  is  sure  to  be 
rewarded  with  a  pipe  and  tankard  in  his  old  days. 
A  great  part  of  his  park,  also,  is  turned  into  pad- 
docks, where  his  broken-down  chargers  are  turned 
loose  to  graze  ui^disturbed  for  the  remainder  of  their 
existence — a  worthy  example  of  grateful  recollection, 
which  if  some  of  his  neighbors  were  to  imitate,  would 
not  be  to  their  discredit.    Indeed,  it  is  one  of  his  great 

Digitized  by  CjOOQ  IC 


448  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

pleastires  to  point  out  these  old  steeds  to  his  visitors, 
to  dwell  on  their  good  qualities,  extol  their  past  ser- 
vices, and  boast,  with  some  little  vainglory,  of  the 
perilous  adventures  and  hardy  exploits  through  which 
they  have  carried  him. 

He  is  given,  however,  to  indulge  his  veneration  for 
family  usages,  and  family  incumbrances,  to  a  whim- 
sical extent.  His  manor  is  infested  by  gangs  of 
gipsies;  yet  he  will  not  suflEer  them  to  be  driven  off, 
because  they  have  infested  the  place  time  out  of  mind, 
and  been  regular  poachers  upon  every  generation  of  the 
family.  He  will  scarcely  permit  a  dry  branch  to  be 
lopped  from  the  great  trees  that  surrotmd  the  house, 
lest  it  should  molest  the  rooks,  that  have  bred  there 
for  centuries.  Owls  have  taken  possession  of  the 
dovecote;  but  they  are  hereditary  owls,  and  must  not 
be  disturbed.  Swallows  have  nearly  choked  up  every 
chimney  with  their  nests;  martins  build  in  every 
frieze  and  cornice;  crows  flutter  about  the  towers,  and 
perch  on  every  weathercock;  and  old  gray-headed 
rats  may  be  seen  in  every  quarter  of  the  house,  running 
in  and  out  of  their  holes  tmdatmtedly  in  broad  day- 
light. In  short,  John  has  such  a  reverence  for  every- 
thing that  has  been  long  in  the  family,  that  he  will  not 
hear  even  of  abuses  being  reformed,  because  they  are 
good  old  family  abuses. 

All  those  whims  and  habits  have  concurred  wofully 
to  drain  the  old  gentleman's  purse;  and  as  he  prides 
himself  on  ptmctuality  in  money  matters,  and  wishes 
to  maintain  his  credit  in  the  neighborhood,  they  have 

Digitized  by  CjOOQlC 


JOHN  BULL  449 

( 

caused  him  great  perplexity  in  meeting  his  engage- 
ments. This,  too,  has  been  increased  by  the  alterca- 
tions and  heart-burnings  which  are  continually  taking 
place  in  his  family.  His  children  have  been  brought 
up  to  different  callings,  and  are  of  different  ways  of 
thinking;  and  as  they  have  always  been  allowed  to 
speak  their  minds  freely,  they  do  not  fail  to  exercise 
the  privilege  most  clamorously  in  the  present  posture 
of  his  affairs.  Some  stand  up  for  the  honor  of  the 
race,  and  are  clear  that  the  old  establishment  should 
be  kept  up  in  all  its  state,  whatever  may  be  the  cost; 
others,  who  are  more  prudent  and  considerate,  entreat 
the  old  gentleman  to  retrench  his  expenses,  and  to  put 
his  whole  system  of  housekeeping  on  a  more  moderate 
footing.  He  has,  indeed,  at  times,  seemed  inclined  to 
listen  to  their  opinions,  but  their  wholesome  advice  has 
been  completely  defeated  by  the  obstreperous  conduct 
of  one  of  his  sons.'  This  is  a  noisy,  rattle-pated  fel- 
low, of  rather  low  habits,  who  neglects  his  business  to 
frequent  ale-houses — ^is  the  orator  of  village  clubs,  and 
a  complete  oracle  among  the  poorest  of  his  father's 
tenants.  No  sooner  does  he  hear  any  of  his  brothers 
mention  reform  or  retrenchment,  than  up  he  jumps, 
takes  the  words  out  of  their  mouths,  and  roars  out 
for  an  overturn.  When  his  tongue  is  once  going  noth- 
ing can  stop  it.  He  rants  about  the  room;  hectors  the 
old  man  about  his  spendthrift  practices;  ridicules  his 
tastes  and  purstiits;  insists  that  he  shall  turn  the  old 
servants  out  of  doors;  give  the  broken-down  horses  to 
the  hoimds:  send  the  fat  chaplain  packing,  and  take  a 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


450  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

field-preacher  in  his  place — ^nay,  that  the  whole  family 
mansion  shall  be  levelled  with  the  ground,  and  a  plain 
one  of  brick  and  mortar  built  in  its  place.  He  rails 
at  every  social  entertainment  and  family  festivity,  and 
skulks  away  growling  to  the  ale-house  whenever  an 
equipage  drives  up  to  the  door.  Though  constantly 
complaining  of  the  emptiness  of  his  purse,  yet  he 
scruples  not  to  spend  all  his  pocket-money  in  these 
tavern  convocations,  and  even  runs  up  scores  for  the 
liquor  over  which  he  preaches  about  his  father's 
extravagance. 

It  may  readily  be  imagined  how  little  such  thwarting 
agrees  with  the  old  cavalier's  fiery  temperament.  He 
has  become  so  irritable,  from  repeated  crossings,  that 
the  mere  mention  of  retrenchment  or  reform'  is  a  signal 
for  a  brawl  between  him  and  the  tavern  oracle.  As 
the  latter  is  too  sturdy  and  refractory  for  paternal 
discipline,  having  grown  out  of  all  fear  of  the  cudgel, 
they  have  frequent  scenes  of  wordy  warfare,  which  at 
times  run  so  high,  that  John  is  fain  to  call  in  the  aid  of 
his  son  Tom,'  an  officer  who  has  served  abroad,  but  is 
at  present  living  at  home,  on  half-pay.  This  last  is 
sure  to  stand  by  the  old  gentleman,  right  or  wrong; 
likes  nothing  so  much  as  a  racketing,  roystering  life; 
and  is  ready  at  a  wink  or  nod,  to  out  sabre,  and 
flourish  it  over  the  orator's  head,  if  he  dares  to  array 
himself  against  paternal  authority. 

These  family  dissensions,  as  usual,  have  got  abroad, 
and  are  rare  food  for  scandal  in  John's  neighborhood. 
People  begin  to  look  wise,  and  shake  their  heads^ 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


JOHN  BULL  45> 

whenever  his  affairs  are  mentioned.  They  all  "hope 
that  matters  are  not  so  bad  with  him  as  represented; 
but  when  a  man's  own  children  begin  to  rail  at  his 
extravagance,  things  must  be  badly  managed.  They 
understand  he  is  mortgaged  over  head  and  ears,  and 
is  continually  dabbling  with  money  lenders.  He  is 
certainly  an  open-handed  old  gentleman,  but  they 
fear  he  has  lived  too  fast ;  indeed,  they  never  knew  any 
good  come  of  this  fondness  for  htinting,  racing,  revel- 
ling, and  prize-fighting.  In  short,  Mr.  Bull's  estate  is  a 
very  fine  one,  and  has  been  in  the  family  a  long  time; 
but,  for  all  that,  they  have  known  many  finer  estates 
come  to  the  hammer. " 

What  is  worst  of  all,  is  the  effect  which  these  pecu- 
niary embarrassments  and  domestic  feuds  have  had  on 
the  poor  man  himself.  Instead  of  that  jolly  rotmd  cor- 
poration, and  smug  rosy  face,  which  he  used  to  present, 
he  has  of  late  become  as  shrivelled  and  shrunk  as  a 
frost-bitten  apple.  His  scarlet  gold-laced  waistcoat, 
which  bellied  out  so  bravely  in  those  prosperous  days 
when  he  sailed  before  the  wind,  now  hangs  loosely 
about  him  like  a  mainsail  in  a  calm.  His  leather 
breeches  are  all  in  folds  and  wrinkles,  and  apparently 
have  much  ado  to  hold  up  the  boots  that  yawn  on  both 
sides  of  his  once  sturdy  legs. 

Instead  of  strutting  about  as  formerly,  with  his 
three-cornered  hat  on  one  side;  flourishing  his  cudgel, 
and  bringing  it  down  every  moment  with  a  hearty 
thump  upon  the  groimd;  looking  every  one  sturdily  in 
the  face,  and  trolling  out  a  stave  of  a  catch  or  a  drink- 
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452  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

ing  song;  he  now  goes  about  whistling  thoughtfufly  to 
himself,  with  his  head  drooping  down,  his  cudgel 
tucked  under  his  arm,  and  his  hands  thrust  to  the 
bottom  of  his  breeches  pockets,  which  are  evidently 
empty.' 

Such  is  the  plight  of  honest  John  Bull  at  present ;  yet 
for  all  this  the  old  fellow's  spirit  is  as  tall  and  as  gallant 
as  ever.  If  you  drop  the  least  expression  of  sympathy 
or  concern,  he  takes  fire  in  an  instant ;  swears  that  he  is 
the  richest  and  stoutest  fellow  in  the  cotmtry ;  talks  of 
laying  out  large  stuns  to  adorn  his  house  or  buy 
another  estate;  and  with  a  valiant  swagger  and  grasp- 
ing of  his  cudgel,  longs  exceedingly  to  have  another 
bout  at  quarter-staff. 

Though  there  may  be  something  rather  whimsical  in 
all  this,  yet  I  confess  I  cannot  look  upon  John's 
situation  without  strong  feelings  of  interest.  With  all 
his  odd  humors  and  obstinate  prejudices,  he  is  a 
sterling-hearted  old  blade.  He  may  not  be  so  wonder- 
fully fine  a  fellow  as  he  thinks  himself,  but  he  is  at 
least  twice  as  good  as  his  neighbors  represent  him. 
His  virtues  are  all  his  own;  all  plain,  home-bred,  and 
unaffected.  His  v6ry  faults  smack  of  the  raciness  of 
his  good  qualities.  His  extravagance  savors  of  his 
generosity;  his  quarrelsomeness  of  his  courage;  his 
credulity  of  his  open  faith;  his  vanity  of  his  pride;  and 
his  bltmtness  of  his  sincerity.  They  are  all  the 
redtmdandes  of  a  rich  and  liberal  character.  He  is 
like  his  own  oak,  rough  without,  but  sotmd  and  solid 
within;  whose  bark  aboimds  with  excrescences  in  pro- 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


JOHN  BULL  453 

portion  to  the  growth  and  grandeur  of  the  timber; 
and  whose  branches  make  a  fearful  groaning  and  mur- 
muring in  the  least  storm,  from  their  very  magnitude 
and  luxuriance.  There  is  something,  too,  in  the 
appearance  of  his  old  family  mansion  that  is  extremely 
poetical  and  picturesque;  and,  as  long  as  it  can  be 
rendered  comfortably  habitable,  I  should  almost 
tremble  to  see  it  meddled  with,  during  the  present 
conflict  of  tastes  and  opinions.  Some  of  his  advisers 
are  no  doubt  good  architects,  that  might  be  of  service; 
but  many,  I  fear,  are  mere  levellers,  who,  when  they 
had  once  got  to  work  with  their  mattocks  on  this 
venerable  edifice,  would  never  stop  until  they  had 
brought  it  to  the  ground,  and  perhaps  buried  them- 
selves among  the  ruins.  All  that  I  wish  is,  that  John's 
present  troubles  may  teach  him  more  prudence  in 
future.  That  he  may  cease  to  distress  his  mind  about 
other  people's  affairs ;  that  he  may  give  up  the  fruitless 
attempt  to  promote  the  good  of  his  neighbors,  and  the 
peace  and  happiness  of  the  world,  by  dint  of  the 
cudgel ;  that  he  may  remain  quietly  at  home ; '  gradually 
get  his  house  into  repair;  ctdtivate  his  rich  estate 
according  to  his  fancy;  husband  his  income — ^if  he 
thinks  proper;  bring  his  unruly  children  into  order — if 
he  can;  renew  the  jovial  scenes  of  ancient  prosperity; 
and  long  enjoy,  on  his  paternal  lands,  a  green,  an 
honorable,  and  a  merry  old  age. 


yGoogk 


THE  PRIDE  OF  THE  VILLAGE 

May  no  wolfe  howle;  no  screech  owle  stir 

A  wing  about  thy  sepulchre! 

No  boysterous  winds  or  stormes  come  hither, 

To  starve  or  wither 
Thy  soft  sweet  earth !  but,  like  a  spring, 
Love  keep  it  ever  flourishing. 

Herrick. 

In  the  course  of  an  excursion  through  one  of  the 
remote  counties  of  England,  I  had  struck  into  one  of 
those  cross-roads  that  lead  through  the  more  secluded 
parts  of  the  country,  and  stopped  one  afternoon  at  a 
village,  the  situation  of  which  was  beautifully  rural 
and  retired.  There  was  an  air  of  primitive  simplicity 
about  its  inhabitants,  not  to  be  fotmd  in  the  villages 
which  lie  on  the  great  coach-roads.  I  determined  to 
pass  the  night  there,  and,  having  taken  an  early 
dinner,  strolled  out  to  enjoy  the  neighboring  scenery. 

My  ramble,  as  is  usually  the  case  with  travellers, 
soon  led  me  to  the  church,  which  stood  at  a  little  dis- 
tance from  the  village.  Indeed,  it  was  an  object  of 
some  curiosity,  its  old  tower  being  completely  overrun 
with  ivy,  so  that  only  here  and  there  a  jutting  buttress, 
an  angle  of  gray  wall,  or  a  fantastically  carved  orna- 
ment, peered  through  the  verdant  covering.  It  was  a 
lovely  evening.     The  early  part  of  the  day  had  been 

454 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


THE  PRIDE  OF  THE  VILLAGE         455 

dark  and  showery,  but  in  the  afternoon  it  had  cleared 
up ;  and  though  sullen  clouds  still  hung  overhead,  yet 
there  was  a  broad  tract  of  golden  sky  in  the  west,  from 
which  the  setting  sun  gleamed  through  the  dripping 
leaves,  and  lit  up  all  nature  with  a  melancholy  smile. 
It  seemed  like  the  parting  hour  of  a  good  Christian, 
smiling  on  the  sins  and  sorrows  of  the  world,  and 
giving,  in  the  serenity  of  his  decline,  an  assurance  that 
he  will  rise  again  in  glory. 

I  had  seated  myself  on  a  half-sunken  tombstone, 
and  was  musing,  as  one  is  apt  to  do  at  this  sober- 
thoughted  hour,  on  past  scenes  and  early  friends — on 
those  who  were  distant  and  those  who  were  dead — ^and 
indulging  in  that  kind  of  melancholy  fancying,  which 
has  in  it  something  sweeter  even  than  pleasure. 
Every  now  and  then,  the  stroke  of  a  bell  from  the 
neighboring  tower  fell  on  my  ear;  its  tones  were  in 
unison  with  the  scene,  and,  instead  of  jarring,  chimed 
in  with  my  feelings;  and  it  was  some  time  before  I 
recollected  that  it  must  be  tolling  the  knell  of  some 
new  tenant  of  the  tomb. 

Presently  I  saw  a  ftmeral  train  moving  across  the 
village  green;  it  wotmd  slowly  along  a  lane;  was  lost, 
and  reappeared  through  the  breaks  of  the  hedges,  until 
it  passed  the  place  where  I  was  sitting.  The  pall  was 
supported  by  yotmg  girls,  dressed  in  white;  and 
another,  about  the  age  of  seventeen,  walked  before, 
bearing  a  chaplet  of  white  flowers;  a  token  that  the 
deceased  was  a  young  and  unmarried  female.  The 
corpse  was  followed  by  the  parents.    They  were  a 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


456  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

venerable  couple  of  the  better  order  of  peasantry. 
The  father  seemed  to  repress  his  feelings;  but  his  fixed 
eye,  contracted  brow,  and  deeply-furrowed  face, 
showed  the  struggle  that  was  passing  within.  His 
wife  hung  on  his  arm,  and  wept  aloud  with  the 
convulsive  bursts  of  a  mother's  sorrow. 

I  followed  the  ftmeral  into  the  church.  The  bier 
was  placed  in  the  centre  aisle,  and  the  chaplet  of 
white  flowers,  with  a  pair  of  white  gloves,  were  hung 
over  the  seat  which  the  deceased  had  occupied. 

Every  one  knows  the  soul-subduing  pathos  of  the 
f imeral  service ;  for  who  is  so  f orttmate  as  never  to  have 
followed  some  one  he  has  loved  to  the  tomb?  but  when 
performed  over  the  remains  of  innocence  and  beauty 
thus  laid  low  in  the  bloom  of  existence — what  can  be 
more  affecting?  At  that  simple,  but  most  solemn 
consignment  of  the  body  to  the  grave — "Earth  to 
earth ^ — ashes  to  ashes — dust  to  dust!" — ^the  tears  o^ 
the  youthful  companions  of  the  deceased  flowed 
unrestrained.  The  father  still  seemed  to  struggle 
with  his  feelings,  and  to  comfort  himself  with  the 
assurance  that  the  dead  are  blessed  which  die  in  the 
Lord;  but  the  mother  only  thought  of  her  child  as  a 
flower  of  the  field  cut  down  and  withered  in  the  midst 
of  its  sweetness;  she  was  like  Rachel,*  ''mourning  over 
her  children,  and  would  not  be  comforted." 

On  returning  to  the  inn,  I  learned  the  whole  story  of 
the  deceased.  It  was  a  simple  one,  and  such  as  has 
often  been  told.  She  had  been  the  beauty  and  pride 
of  the  village.    Her  father  had  once  been  an  opulent 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


THE  PRIDE  OF  THE  VILLAGE         457 

farmer,  but  was  reduced  in  circumstances.  This  was 
an  only  child,  and  brought  up  entirely  at  home,  in  the 
simpUdty  of  rural  life.  She  had  been  the  pupil  of  the 
village  pastor,  the  favorite  lamb  of  his  little  flock. 
The  good  man  watched  over  her  education  with 
paternal  care;  it  was  limited,  and  suitable  to  the 
sphere  in  which  she  was  to  move;  for  he  only  sought  to 
make  her  an  ornament  to  her  station  in  life,  not  to 
raise  her  above  it.  The  tenderness  and  indulgence  of 
her  parents,  and  the  exemption  from  all  ordinary 
occupations,  had  fostered  a  natural  grace  and  delicacy 
of  character,  that  accorded  with  the  fragile  loveliness 
of  her  form.  She  appeared  like  some  tender  plant  of 
the  garden,  blooming  accidentally  amid  the  hardier 
natives  of  the  fields. 

The  superiority  of  her  charms  was  felt  and  acknow- 
ledged by  her  companions,  but  without  envy ;  for  it  was 
surpassed  by  the  unassuming  gentleness  and  winning 
kindness  of  her  manners.  It  might  be  truly  said  of 
her: 

This  is  the  prettiest  low-boun  lass,  that  ever 
Ran  on  the  green-sward;  nothing  she  does  or  seems, 
But  smacks  of  something  greater  than  herself; 
Too  noble  for  this  place.* 

The  village  was  one  of  those  sequestered  spots, 
which  still  retain  some  vestiges  of  old  English  customs. 
It  had  its  rural  festivals  and  holiday  pastimes,  and 
still  kept  up  some  faint  observance  of  the  once  popular 
rites  of  May.    These,  indeed  had  been  promotai  by 

Digitized  by  VjOOQ  IC 


458  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

its  present  pastor,  who  was  a  lover  of  old  customs,  and 
one  of  those  simple  Christians  that  think  their  mission 
fulfilled  by  promoting  joy  on  earth  and  good-will 
among  mankind.  Under  his  auspices  the  May-pole 
stood  from  year  to  year  in  the  centre  of  the  village 
green;  on  May-day'  it  was  decorated  with  garlands 
and  streamers;  and  a  queen  or  lady  of  the  May  was 
appointed,  as  in  former  times,  to  preside  at  the  sports, 
and  distribute  the  prizes  and  rewards.  The  pic- 
turesque situation  of  the  village,  and  the  fancifulness 
of  its  rustic  f^tes,  would  often  attract  the  notice  of 
casual  visitors.  Among  these,  on  one  May-day,  was 
a  yotmg  officer,  whose  regiment  had  been  recently 
quartered  in  the  neighborhood.  He  was  charmed  with 
the  native  taste  that  pervaded  this  village  pageant; 
but,  above  all,  with  the  dawning  loveliness  of  the  queen 
of  May.  It  was  the  village  favorite,  who  was  crowned 
with  flowers,  and  blushing  and  smiling  in  all  the 
beautiful  confusion  of  girlish  diffidence  and  delight. 
The  artlessness  of  rural  habits  enabled  him  readily  to 
make  her  acquaintance;  he  gradually  won  his  way  into 
her  intimacy ;  and  paid  his  court  to  her  in  that  tmthink- 
ing  way  in  which  yotmg  officers  are  too  apt  to  trifle 
with  rustic  simplicity. 

There  was  nothing  in  his  advances  to  startle  or 
alarm.  He  never  even  talked  of  love:  but  there  are 
modes  of  making  it  more  eloquent  than  language,  and 
which  convey  it  subtilely  and  irresistibly  to  the  heart. 
The  beam  of  the  eye,  the  tone  of  voice,  the  thousand 
tendernesses  which  emanate  from  every  word,   and 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


THE  PRIDE  OF  THE  VILLAGE         459 

look,  and  action — ^these  form  the  true  eloquence  of 
love,  and  can  always  be  felt  and  understood,  but 
never  described.  Can  we  wonder  that  they  should 
readily  win  a  heart,  young,  guileless,  and  susceptible? 
As  to  her,  she  loved  almost  tmconsdously ;  she  scarcely 
inquired  what  was  the  growing  passion  that  was 
absorbing  every  thought  and  feeling,  or  what  were  to 
be  its  consequences.  She,  indeed,  looked  not  to  the 
future.  When  present,  his  looks  and  words  occupied 
her  whole  attention;  when  absent,  she  thought  but  of 
what  had  passed  at  their  recent  interview.  She 
would  wander  with  him  through  the  green  lanes  and 
rtu-al  scenes  of  the  vicinity.  He  taught  her  to  see  new 
beauties  in  nature;  he  talked  in  the  language  of  polite 
and  cultivated  life,  and  breathed  into  her  ear  the 
witcheries  of  romance  and  poetry. 

Perhaps  there  could  not  have  been  a  passion, 
between  the  sexes,  more  pure  than  this  innocent  girl's. 
The  gallant  figure  of  her  youthful  admirer,  and  the 
splendor  of  his  military  attire,  might  at  first  have 
charmed  her  eye;  but  it  was  not  these  that  had 
captivated  her  heart.  Her  attachment  had  some- 
thing in  it  of  idolatry.  She  looked  up  to  him  as  to  a 
being  of  a  superior  order.  She  felt  in  his  society  the 
enthusiasm  of  a  mind  naturally  delicate  and  poetical, 
and  now  first  awakened  to  a  keen  perception  of  the 
beautiful  and  grand.  Of  the  sordid  distinctions  of 
rank  and  forttme  she  thought  nothing;  it  was  the 
difference  of  intellect,  of  demeanor,  of  manners,  from 
those  of  the  rustic  society  to  which  she  had  been  accus- 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


460  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

tomed,  that  elevated  him  in  her  opinion.  She  would 
Ksten  to  him  with  charmed  ear  and  downcast  look 
©f  mute  delight,  and  her  cheek  would  mantle  with 
enthusiasm;  or  if  ever  she  ventured  a  shy  glance  of 
timid  admiration,  it  was  as  quickly  withdrawn,  and 
she  would  sigh  and  blush  at  the  idea  of  her  compara- 
tive imworthiness. 

Her  lover  was  equally  impassioned;  but  his  passion 
was  mingled  with  feelings  of  a  coarser  nature.  He  had 
begun  the  connection  in  levity;  for  he  had  often  heard 
his  brother  officers  boast  of  their  village  conquests,  and 
thought  some  triumph  of  the  kind  necessary  to  his 
reputation  as  a  man  of  spirit.  But  he  was  too  full  of 
youthful  fervor.  His  heart  had  not  yet  been  rendered 
sufficiently  cold  and  selfish  by  a  wandering  and  a 
dissipated  life;  it  caught  fire  from  the  very  flame  it 
sought  to  kindle ;  and  before  he  was  aware  of  the  nature 
of  his  situation,  he  became  really  in  love. 

What  was  he  to  do?  There  were  the  old  obstacles 
which  so  incessantly  occur  in  these  heedless  attach- 
ments. His  rank  in  life — the  prejudices  of  titled  con- 
nections— his  dependence  upon  a  proud  and  unyielding 
father — all  forbade  him  to  think  of  matrimony: — ^btit 
when  he  looked  down  upon  this  innocent  being,  so 
tender  and  confiding,  there  was  a  purity  in  her  man- 
ners, a  blamelessness  in  her  life,  and  a  beseeching 
modesty  in  her  looks,  that  awed  down  every  licentious 
feeling.  In  vain  did  he  try  to  fortify  himself  by  a 
thousand  heartless  examples  of  men  of  fashion;  and  to 
chill  the  glow  of  generous  sentiment  with  that  cold 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


THE  PRIDE  OF  THE  VILLAGE         461 

derisive  levity  with  which  he  had  heard  them  talk  of 
female  virtue;  whenever  he  came  into  her  presence, 
she  was  still  surrotmded  by  that  mysterious  but 
impassive  charm  of  virgin  purity  in  whose  hallowed 
sphere  no  guilty  thought  can  live. 

The  sudden  arrival  of  orders  for  the  regiment  to 
repair  to  the  continent  completed  the  confusion  of  his 
mind.  He  remained  for  a  short  time  in  a  state  of  the 
most  painful  irresolution ;  he  hesitated  to  communicate 
the  tidings,  until  the  day  for  marching  was  at  hand; 
when  he  gave  her  the  intelligence  in  the  course  of  bm 
evening  ramble. 

The  idea  of  parting  had  never  before  occurred  to  her. 
It  broke  in  at  once  upon  her  dream  of  felicity;  she 
looked  upon  it  as  a  sudden  and  insurmountable  evil, 
and  wept  with  the  guileless  simplicity  of  a  child.  He 
drew  her  to  his  bosom,  and  kissed  the  tears  from  her 
soft  cheek;  nor  did  he  meet  with  a  repulse,  for  there 
are  moments  of  mingled  sorrow  and  tenderness,  which 
hallow  the  caresses  of  affection.  He  was  naturally 
impetuous;  and  the  sight  of  beauty,  apparently  yield- 
ing in  his  arms,  the  confidence  of  his  power  over  her, 
and  the  dread  of  losing  her  for  ever,  all  conspired  to 
over- whelm  his  better  feelings — he  ventured  to  pro- 
pose that  she  should  leave  her  home,  and  be  the  com- 
panion of  his  fortunes. 

He  was  quite  a  novice  in  seduction,  and  blushed  and 
faltered  at  his  own  baseness;  but  so  innocent  of  mind 
was  his  intended  victim,  that  she  was  at  first  at  a  loss 
to  comprehend  his  meaning;  and  why  she  should  leave 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


462  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

her  native  village,  and  the  humble  roof  of  her  parents. 
When  at  last  the  nature  of  his  proposal  flashed  upon 
her  pure  mind,  the  effect  was  withering.  She  did  not 
weep — she  did  not  break  forth  into  reproach — she 
said  not  a  word — but  she  shrunk  back  aghast  as  from  a 
viper;  gave  him  a  look  of  angtiish  that  pierced  to  his 
very  soul;  and,  clasping  her  hands  in  agony,  fled,  as  if 
for  refuge,  to  her  father's  cottage. 

The  ofiicer  retired,  confounded,  humiliated,  and 
repentant.  It  is  imcertain  what  might  have  been  the 
result  of  the  conflict  of  his  feelings,  had  not  his 
thoughts  been  diverted  by  the  bustle  of  departure. 
New  scenes,  new  pleasures,  and  new  companions, 
soon  dissipated  his  self-reproach,  and  stifled  his 
tenderness;  yet,  amidst  the  stir  of  camps,  the  revelries 
of  garrisons,  the  array  of  armies,  and  even  the  din  of 
battles,  his  thoughts  would  sometimes  steal  back  to  the 
scenes  of  hiral  quiet  and  village  simplicity — ^the  white 
cottage — the  footpath  along  the  silver  brook  and  up 
the  hawthorn  hedge,  and  the  little  village  maid  loiter- 
ing along  it,  leaning  on  his  arm,  and  listening  to  him 
with  eyes  beaming  with  tmconscious  affection. 

The  shock  which  the  poor  girl  had  received,  in  the 
destruction  of  all  her  ideal  world,  had  indeed  been 
cruel.  Paintings  and  hysterics  had  at  first  shaken  her 
tender  frame,  and  were  succeeded  by  a  settled  and 
pining  melancholy.  She  had  beheld  from  her  window 
the  march  of  the  departing  troops.  She  had  seen  her 
faithless  lover  borne  off,  as  if  in  triumph,  amidst  the 
sound  of  drum  and  trumpet,  and  the  pomp  of  arms. 

Digitized  by  CjOOQ  iC 


THE  PRIDE  OF  THE  VILLAGE        463 

She  strained  a  last  aching  gaze  after  him,  as  the  morn- 
ing sun  glittered  about  his  figure,  and  his  plume 
waved  in  the  breeze;  he  passed  away  like  a  bright 
vision  from  her  sight,  and  left  her  all  in  darkness. 

It  would  be  trite  to  dwell  on  the  particulars  of  her 
after  story.  It  was,  like  other  tales  of  love,  melan- 
choly. She  avoided  society,  and  wandered  out  alone 
in  the  walks  she  had  most  frequented  with  her  lover. 
She  sought,  like  the  stricken  deer,  to  weep  in  silence 
and  loneliness  and  brood  over  the  barbed  sorrow  that 
rankled  in  her  soul.  Sometimes  she  would  be  seen 
late  of  an  evening  sitting  in  the  porch  of  the  village 
church;  and  the  milkmaids,  returning  from  the  fields, 
would  now  and  then  overhear  her  singing  some  plain- 
tive ditty  in  the  hawthorn  walk.  She  became  fervent 
in  her  devotions  at  church;  and  as  the  old  people  saw 
her  approach,  so  wasted  away,  yet  with  a  hectic 
bloom,  and  that  hallowed  air  which  melancholy 
diffuses  round  the  form,  they  would  make  way  for  her, 
as  for  something  spiritual,  and,  looking  after  her, 
would  shake  their  heads  in  gloomy  foreboding. 

She  felt  a  conviction  that  she  was  hastening  to  the 
tomb,  but  looked  forward  to  it  as  a  place  of  rest.  The 
silver  cord  that  had  bound  her  to  existence  was  loosed, 
and  there  seemed  to  be  no  more  pleasure  under  the 
sun.  If  ever  her  gentle  bosom  had  entertained 
resentment  against  her  lover,  it  was  extinguished. 
She  was  incapable  of  angry  passions ;  and  in  a  moment 
of  saddened  tenderness,  she  penned  him  a  farewell 
letter.     It  was  couched  in  the  simplest  language,  but 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


464  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

touching  from  its  very  simplicity.  She  told  him  that 
she  was  dying,  and  did  not  conceal  from  him  that  his 
conduct  was  the  cause.  She  even  depicted  the 
suflEerings  which  she  had  experienced;  but  concluded 
with  sa)dng,  that  she  could  not  die  in  peace,  until  she 
had  sent  him  her  forgiveness  and  her  blessing. 

By  degrees  her  strength  declined,  that  she  could  no 
longer  leave  the  cottage.  She  could  only  totter  to  the 
window,  where,  propped  up  in  her  chair,  it  was  her 
enjoyment  to  sit  all  day  and  look  out  upon  the  land- 
scape. Still  she  uttered  no  complaint,  nor  imparted 
to  any  one  the  malady  that  was  preying  on  her  heart. 
She  never  even  mentioned  her  lover's  name;  but 
would  lay  her  head  on  her  mother's  bosom  and  weep  in 
silence.  Her  poor  parents  hung,  in  mute  anxiety, 
over  this  fading  blossom  of  their  hopes,  still  flattering 
themselves  that  it  might  again  revive  to  freshness, 
and  that  the  bright  unearthly  bloom  which  sometimes 
flushed  her  cheek  might  be  the  promise  of  returning 
health. 

In  this  way  she  was  seated  between  them  one  Sun- 
day afternoon;  her  hands  were  clasped  in  theirs,  the 
lattice  was  thrown  open,  and  the  soft  air  that  stole  in 
brought  with  it  the  fragrance  of  the  clustering  honey- 
suckle which  her  own  hands  had  trained  round  the 
window. 

Her  father  had  just  been  reading  a  chapter  in  the 
Bible;  it  spoke  of  the  vanity  of  worldly  things,  and  of 
the  joys  of  heaven;  it  seemed  to  have  diffused  comfort 
and  serenity  through  her  bosom.    Her  eye  was  .fixed 


yGoogk 


THE  PRIDE  OF  THE  VILLAGE         465 

on  the  distant  village  church;  the  bell  had  tolled  for 
the  evening  service;  the  last  villager  was  lagging  into 
the  porch;  and  everything  had  sunk  into  that  hal- 
lowed stillness  peculiar  to  the  day  of  rest.  Her 
parents  were  gazing  on  her  with  yearning  hearts. 
Sickness  and  sorrow,  which  pass  so  roughly  over  some 
faces,  had  given  to  hers  the  expression  of  a  seraph's. 
A  tear  trembled  in  her  soft  blue  eye. — Was  she  think- 
ing of  her  faithless  lover? — or  were  her  thoughts 
wandering  to  that  distant  churchyard,  into  whose 
bosom  she  might  soon  be  gathered? 

Suddenly  the  clang  of  hoofs  was  heard — a  horse- 
man galloped  to  the  cottage — ^he  dismounted  before 
the  window — the  poor  girl  gave  a  faint  exclamation, 
and  sunk  back  in  her  chair:  it  was  her  repentant 
lover !  He  rushed  into  the  house,  and  flew  to  clasp  her 
to  his  bosom;  but  her  wasted  form — her  deathlike 
countenance — ^so  wan,  yet  so  lovely  in  its  desolation, — 
smote  him  to  the  soul,  and  he  threw  himself  in  agony 
at  her  feet.  She  was  too  faint  to  rise — she  attempted 
to  extend  her  trembling  hand — her  lips  moved  as  if  she 
spoke,  but  no  word  was  articulated — she  looked  down 
upon  him  with  a  smile  of  unutterable  tenderness, — ^and 
closed  her  eyes  for  ever. 

Such  are  the  particulars  which  I  gathered  of  this 
village  story.  They  are  but  scanty,  and  I  am  con- 
scious have  little  novelty  to  recommend  them.  In 
the  present  rage  also  for  strange  incident  and  high- 
seasoned  narrative,  they  may  appear  trite  and  insig- 
nificant, but  they  interested  me  strongly  at  the  time; 
30 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


466  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

and,  taken  in  connection  with  the  affecting  ceremony 
which  I  had  just  witnessed,  left  a  deeper  impression  on 
my  mind  than  many  circtmastances  of  a  more  striking 
nature.  I  have  passed  through  the  place  since,  and 
visited  the  church  again,  from  a  better  motive  than 
mere  curiosity.  It  was  a  wintry  evening;  the  trees 
were  stripped  of  their  foliage;  the  churchyard  looked 
naked  and  mournful,  and  the  wind  rustled  coldly 
through  the  dry  grass.  Evergreens,  however,  had 
been  planted  about  the  grave  of  the  village  favorite, 
and  osiers  were  bent  over  it  to  keep  the  turf  iminjured. 
The  church  door  was  open,  and  I  stepped  in.  There 
huiig  the  chaplet  of  flowers  and  the  gloves,  as  on  the 
day  of  the  funeral :  the  flowers  were  withered,  it  is  true, 
but  care  seemed  to  have  been  taken  that  no  dust 
should  soil  their  whiteness.  I  have  seen  many  monu- 
ments, where  art  has  exhausted  its  powers  to  awaken 
the  sympathy  of  the  spectator,  but  I  have  met  with 
none  that  spoke  more  touchingly  to  my  heart,  than 
this  simple  but  delicate  memento  of  departed 
innooence. 


yGoogk 


THE  ANGLER 

This  day  dame  Nature  seem'd  in  love, 

The  lusty  sap  began  to  move, 

Fresh  juice  did  stir  th*  embracing  vines 

And  birds  had  drawn  their  valentines. 

The  jealous  trout  that  low  did  lie, 

Rose  at  a  well-dissembled  flie. 

There  stood  my  friend,  with  patient  skill, 

Attending  of  his  trembling  quill. 

Sir  H.  Wotton. 

It  is  said  that  many  an  unlucky  urchin  is  induced 
to  run  away  from  his  family,  and  betake  himself  to  a 
seafaring  life,  from  reading  the  history  of  Robinson 
Crusoe;  and  I  suspect  that,  in  like  manner,  many  of 
those  worthy  gentlemen  who  are  given  to  haunt  the 
sides  of  pastoral  streams  with  angle  rods  in  hand,  may 
trace  the  origin  of  their  passion  to  the  seductive  pages 
of  honest  Izaak  Walton.^  I  recollect  studying  his 
Complete  Angler  several  years  since,  in  company 
with  a  knot  of  friends  in  America,  and  moreover 
that  we  were  all  completely  bitten  with  the  angling 
mania.  It  was  early  in  the  year;  but  as  soon  as  the 
weather  was  auspicious,  and  that  the  spring  began 
to  melt  into  the  verge  of  summer,  we  took  rod  in 
hand  and  sallied  into  the  cotmtry,  as  stark  mad 
as  was  ever  Don  Quixote^  from  reading  books  of 
chivalry. 

467 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


468  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

One  of  otir  party  had  equalled  the  Don  in  the  ftdness 
of  his  eqtdpments,  being  attired  cap-a-pie  for  the 
enterprise.  He  wore  a  broad-sldrted  fustian  coat, 
perplexed  with  half  a  hundred  pockets;  a  pair  of  stout 
shoes,  and  leathern  gaiters ;  a  basket  slung  on  one  side 
for  fish;  a  patent  rod,  a  landing  net,  and  a  score  of 
other  inconveniences,  only  to  be  found  in  the  true 
angler's  armory.  Thus  harnessed  for  the  field,  he  was 
as  great  a  matter  of  stare  and  wonderment  among  the 
country  folk,  who  had  never  seen  a  regular  angler,  as 
was  the  steel-clad  hero  of  La  Mancha^  among  the 
goatherds  of  the  Sierra  Morena. 

Our  first  essay  was  along  a  mountain  brook,  among 
the  highlands  of  the  Hudson;^  a  most  unfortunate 
place  for  the  execution  of  those  piscatory  tactics  which 
had  been  invented  along  the  velvet  margins  of  quiet 
English  rivulets.  It  was  one  of  those  wild  streams 
that  lavish,  among  our  romantic  solitudes,  unheeded 
beauties,  enough  to  fill  the  sketch-book  of  a  hunter  of 
the  picturesque.  Sometimes  it  would  leap  down 
rocky  shelves,  making  small  cascades,  over  which  the 
trees  threw  their  broad  balancing  sprays,  and  long 
nameless  weeds  hung  in  fringes  from  the  impending 
banks,  dripping  with  diamond  drops.  Sometimes  it 
would  brawl  and  fret  along  a  ravine  in  the  matted 
shade  of  a  forest,  filling  it  with  mtirmurs;  and,  after 
this  termagant  career,  would  steal  forth  into  open  day 
with  the  most  placid  demure  face  imaginable;  as  I 
have  seen  some  pestilent  shrew  of  a  housewife,  after 
filling  her  home  with  uproar  and  ill-humor,  come 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


THE  ANGLER  469 

dimpling  out  of  doors,  swimming  and  courtes3ang, 
and  smiling  upon  all  the  world. 

How  smoothly  would  this  vagrant  brook  glide,  at 
such  times,  through  some  bosom  of  green  meadow- 
land  among  the  mountains:  where  the  quiet  was  only 
interrupted  by  the  occasional  tinkling  of  a  bell  from 
the  lazy  cattle  among  the  clover,  or  the  sound  of  a 
woodcutter's  axe  from  the  neighboring  forest. 

For  my  part,  I  was  always  a  bungler  at  all  kinds  of 
sport  that  required  either  patience  or  adroitness,  and 
had  not  angled  above  half  an  hour  before  I  had  com- 
pletely '* satisfied  the  sentiment,"  and  convinced 
myself  of  the  truth  of  Izaak  Walton's  opinion,  that 
angling  is  something  like  poetry — a  man  must  be  bom 
to  it.  I  hooked  myself  instead  of  the  fish;  tangled  my 
line  in  every  tree;  lost  my  bait;  broke  my  rod;  until  I 
gave  up  the  attempt  in  despair,  and  passed  the  day 
imder  the  trees,  reading  old  Izaak;  satisfied  that  it  was 
his  fascinating  vein  of  honest  simplicity  and  rural 
feeling  that  had  bewitched  me,  and  not  the  passion  for 
angling.  My  companions,  however,  were  more  per- 
severing in  their  delusion.  I  have  them  at  this 
moment  before  my  eyes,  stealing  along  the  border  of 
the  brook,  where  it  lay  open  to  the  day,  or  was  merely 
fringed  by  shrubs  and  bushes.  I  see  the  bittern 
rising  with  hollow  scream  as  they  break  in  upon  his 
rarely-invaded  haunt;  the  kingfisher  watching  them 
suspiciously  from  his  dry  tree  that  overhangs  the  deep 
black  mill-pond,  in  the  gorge  of  the  hills ;  the  tortoise 
letting  himself  slip  sideways  from  off  the  stone  or  log  on 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


470  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

which  he  is  sunning  himself;  and  the  panic-struck 
frog  plumping  in  headlong  as  they  approach,  and 
spreading  an  alarm  throughout  the  watery  world 
around. 

I  recollect  also,  that,  after  toiUng  and  watching  and 
creeping  about  for  the  greater  part  of  a  day,  with 
scarcely  any  success,  in  spite  of  all  our  admirable  ap- 
paratus, a  lubberly  country  urchin  came  down  from 
the  hills  with  a  rod  made  from  a  branch  of  a  tree,  a 
few  yards  df  twine,  and,  as  Heaven  shall  help  me !  I 
believe,  a  crooked  pin  for  a  hook,  baited  with  a  vile 
earthworm — and  in  half  an  hour  caught  more  fish 
than  we  had  nibbles  throughout  the  day! 

But,  above  all,  I  recollect  the  '*good,  honest,  whole- 
some, hungry"  repast,  which  we  made  under  a  beech- 
tree,  just  by  a  spring  of  pure  sweet  water  that  stole  out 
of  the  side  of  a  hill;  and  how,  when  it  was  over,  one  of 
the  party  read  old  Izaak  Walton's  scene  with  the  milk- 
maid, while  I  lay  on  the  grass,  and  built  castles  in  a 
bright  pile  of  clouds,  until  I  fell  asleep.  All  this  may 
appear  like  mere  egotism;  yet  I  cannot  refrain  from 
uttering  these  recollections,  which  are  passing  like  a 
strain  of  music  over  my  mind,  and  have  been  called  up 
by  an  agreeable  scene  which  I  witnessed  not  long 
since. 

In  a  morning's  stroll  along  the  banks  of  the  Alun,  a 
beautiful  little  stream  which  flows  down  from  the 
Welsh  hills  and  throws  itself  into  the  Dee,  my  atten- 
tion was  attracted  to  a  group  seated  on  the  margin. 
On  approaching,  I  found  it  to  consist  of  a  veteran 


yGoogk 


THE  ANGLER  471 

angler  and  two  rustic  disciples.  The  former  was  an 
old  feUow  with  a  wooden  leg,  with  dothes  very  much 
but  very  carefully  patched,  betokening  poverty, 
honestly  come  by,  and  decently  maintained.  His 
face  bore  the  marks  of  former  storms,  but  present 
fair  weather;  its  furrows  had  been  worn  into  an  ha- 
bitual smile;  his  iron-gray  locks  himg  about  his  ears, 
and  he  had  altogether  the  good-humored  air  of  a 
constitutional  philosopher  who  was  disposed  to  take 
the  world  as  it  went.  One  of  his  companions  was  a 
ragged  wight,  with  the  skulking  look  of  an  arrant 
poacher,  and  I  '11  warrant  could  find  his  way  to  any 
gentleman's  fish-pond  in  the  neighborhood  in  the  dark- 
est night.  The  other  was  a  tall,  awkward  country  lad 
with  a  lounging  gait,  and  apparently  somewhat  of  a 
rustic  beau.  The  old  man  was  busy  in  examining  the 
maw  of  a  trout  which  he  had  just  killed,  to  discover  by 
its  contents  what  insects  were  seasonable  for  bait;  and 
was  lecturing  on  the  subject  to  his  companions,  who 
appeared  to  listen  with  infinite  deference.  I  have  a 
kind  feeling  towards  all  "brothers  of  the  angle,"  ever 
since  I  read  Izaak  Walton.  They  are  men,  he  afiirms, 
of  a  "mild,  sweet,  and  peaceable  spirit";  and  my 
esteem  for  them  has  been  increased  since  I  met  with 
an  old  Tretyse  of  fishing  with  the  Angles  in  which  are 
set  forth  many  of  the  maxims  of  their  inoffensive 
fraternity.  "Take  good  hede,"  sayeth  this  honest 
little  tretyse,  "that  in  going  about  your  disportes  ye 
open  no  man's  gates  but  that  ye  shet  them  again. 
Also  ye  shall  not  use  this  f orsayd  crafti  disport  for  no 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


472  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

covetousness  to  the  encreasing  and  sparing  of  yotir 
money  only,  but  principally  for  your  solace,  and  to 
cause  the  helth  of  your  body  and  specyaUy  of  your 
soule."*  / 

I  thought  that  I  could  perceive  in  the  veteran  angler 
before  me  an  exemplification  of  what  I  had  read;  and 
there  was  a  cheerful  contentedness  in  his  looks  that 
quite  drew  me  towards  him.  I  could  not  but  remark 
the  gallant  manner  in  which  he  stumped  from  one  part 
of  the  brook  to  another;  waving  his  rod  in  the  air,  to 
keep  the  line  from  dragging  on  the  ground,  or  catching 
among  the  bushes;  and  the  adroitness  with  which  he 
would  throw  his  fly  to  any  particular  place;  sometimes 
skimming  it  lightly  along  a  little  rapid;  sometimes 
casting  it  into  one  of  those  dark  holes  made  by  a 
twisted  root  or  overhanging  bank,  in  which  the  large 
trout  are  apt  to  lurk.  In  the  meanwhile  he  was 
giving  instructions  to  his  two  disciples;  showing  them 
thQ  manner  in  which  they  should  handle  their  rods,  fix 
their  flies,  and  play  them  along  the  surface  of  the 
stream.  The  scene  brought  to  my  mind  the  instruc- 
tions of  the  sage  Piscator  to  his  scholar.     The  country 

*  From  this  same  treatise,  it  would  appear  that  angling  is  a  more 
industrious  and  devout  employment  than  it  is  generally  consid- 
ered.— "For  when  ye  purpose  to  go  on  your disportes in fishynge 
ye  win  not  desyre  greatlye  manypers  ons  with  you,  which  might 
let  you  of  your  game.  And  that  ye  may  serve  God  devoutly  in 
sayinge  effectually  your  customable  prayers.  And  thus  doying, 
ye  shall  eschew  and  also  avoyde  many  vices,  as  ydelnes,  which  is 
principall  cause  to  induce  man  to  many  other  vices  as  it  is  right 
.  well  known. " 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


THE  ANGLER  473 

round  was  of  that  pastoral  kind  which  Walton  is  fond 
of  describing.  It  was  a  part  of  the  great  plain  of 
Cheshire,  close  by  the  beautiful  vale  of  Gessford,  and 
just  where  the  inferior  Welsh  hills  begin  to  swell  up 
from  among  fresh-smelling  meadows.  The  day,  too, 
like  that  recorded  in  his  work,  was  mild  and  sunshiny, 
with  now  and  then  a  soft-dropping  shower,  that 
sowed  the  whole  earth  with  diamonds. 

I  soon  f eU  into  conversation  with  the  old  angler,  and 
was  so  much  entertained  that,  imder  pretext  of  receiv- 
ing instructions  in  his  art,  I  kept  company  with  him 
almost  the  whole  day;  wandering  along  the  banks  of 
the  stream,  and  listening  to  his  talk.  He  was  very 
communicative,  having  all  the  easy  garrulity  of  cheer- 
ful old  age;  and  I  fancy  was  a  little  flattered  by  having 
an  opportunity  of  displa)dng  his  piscatory  lore;  for 
who  does  not  like  now  and  then  to  play  the  sage? 

He  had  been  much  of  a  rambler  in  his  day,  and 
had  passed  some  years  of  his  youth  in  America, 
particularly  in  Savannah,  where  he  had  entered 
into  trade,  and  had  been  ruined  by  the  indiscretion 
of  a  partner.  He  had  afterwards  experienced  many 
ups  and  downs  in  life,  until  he  got  into  the  navy, 
where  his  le^  was  carried  away  by  a  cannon  ball, 
at  the  battle  of  Camperdown.  This  was  the  only 
stroke  of  real  good  fortune  he  had  ever  experienced, 
for  it  got  him  a  pension,  which,  together  with 
some  small  paternal  property,  brought  him  in  a 
revenue  of  nearly  forty  pounds.  On  this  he  retired 
to  his  native  village,  where  he  lived  quietly  and 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


474  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

independently;  and  devoted  the  remainder  of  his  life 
to  the  "noble  art  of  angling.'^ 

I  fotind  that  he  had  read  Izaak  Walton  attentively, 
and  he  seemed  to  have  imbibed  all  his  simple  frankness 
and  prevalent  good-humor.  Though  he  had  been 
sorely  buffeted  about  the  world,  he  was  satisfied  that 
the  world,  in  itself,  was  good  and  beautiful.  Though 
he  had  been  as  roughly  used  in  different  countries  as  a 
poor  sheep  that  is  fleeced  by  every  hedge  and  thicket, 
yet  he  spoke  of  every  nation  with  candor  and  kindness, 
appearing  to  look  only  on  the  good  side  of  things :  and, 
above  all,  he  was  almost  the  only  man  I  had  ever  met 
with  who  had  been  an  unfortunate  adventurer  in 
America,  and  had  honesty  and  magnanimity  enough 
to  take  the  fault  to  his  own  door,  and  not  to  curse  the 
country.  The  lad  that  was  receiving  his  instructions, 
I  learnt,  was  the  son  and  heir  apparent  of  a  fat  old 
widow  who  kept  the  village  inn,  and  of  course  a  youth 
of  some  expectation,  and  much  courted  by  the  idle 
gentlemanlike  personages  of  the  place.  In  taking  him 
under  his  care,  therefore,  the  old  man  had  probably  an 
eye  to  a  privileged  comer  in  the  tap-room,  and  an 
occasional  cup  of  cheerful  ale  free  of  expense. 

There  is  certainly  something  in  anglii?g  (if  we  could 
forget,  which  anglers  are  apt  to  do,  the  cruelties  and 
tortures  inflicted  on  worms  and  insects)  that  tends  to 
produce  a  gentleness  of  spirit,  and  a  pure  serenity  of 
mind.  As  the  English  are  methodical,  even  in  their 
recreations,  and  are  the  most  scientific  of  sportsmen,  it 
has  been  reduced  among  them  to  perfect  rule  and 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


THE  ANGLER  475 

system.  Indeed  it  is  an  amusement  peculiarly 
adapted  to  the  mild  arid  highly-cultivated  scenery  of 
England,  where  every  roughness  has  been  softened 
away  from  the  landscape.  It  is  delightful  to  saunter 
along  those  limpid  streams  which  wander,  like  veins  of 
silver,  through  the  bosom  of  this  beautiful  country; 
leading  one  through  a  diversity  of  small  home  scenery; 
sometimes  winding  through  ornamented  grounds; 
sometimes  brimming  along  through  rich  pasturage, 
where  the  fresh  green  is  mingled  with  sweet-smelling 
flowers;  sometimes  venturing  in  sight  of  villages  and 
hamlets,  and  then  running  capriciously  away  into 
shady  retirements.  The  sweetness  and  serenity  of 
nature,  and  the  quiet  watchfulness  of  the  sport, 
gradually  bring  on  pleasant  fits  of  musing;  which  are 
now  and  then  agreeably  interrupted  by  the  song  of  a 
bird,  the  distant  whistle  of  the  peasant,  or  perhaps  the 
vagary  of  some  fish,  leaping  out  of  the  still  water,  and 
skimming  transiently  about  its  glassy  surface.  ''When 
I  would  beget  content,"  says  Izaak  Walton,  ''and 
increase  confidence  in  the  power  and  wisdom  and 
prpvidence  of  Almighty  God,  I  will  walk  the  meadows 
by  some  gliding  stream,  and  there  contemplate  the 
lilies  that  take  no  care,  and  those  very  many  other 
little  living  creatures  that  are  not  only  created,  but 
fed  (man  knows  not  how)  by  the  goodness  of  the 
God  of  nature,  and  therefore  trust  in  him." 

I  cannot  forbear  to  give  another  quotation  from  one 
of  those  ancient  champions  of  angling,  which  breathes 
the  same  innocent  and  happy  spirit: 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


476  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

Let  me  live  harmlessly,  and  near  the  brink 

Of  Trent  or  Avon  have  a  dwelling-place, 
Where  I  may  see  my  quill,  or  cork,  down  sink, 

With  eager  bite  of  pike,  or  bleak,  or  dace; 
And  on  the  world  and  my  Creator  think: 

Whilst  some  men  strive  ill-gotten  goods  t'embrace; 
And  others  spend  their  time  in  base  excess 

Of  wine,  or  worse,  in  war,  or  wantonness. 

Let  them  that  will,  these  pastimes  still  pursue, 
And  on  such  pleasing  fancies  feed  their  fill; 

So  I  the  fields  and  meadows  green  may  view, 
And  daily  by  fresh  rivers  walk  at  will, 

Among  the  daisies  and  the  violets  blue, 
Red  hyacinth  and  yellow  daffodil.    * 

On  parting  with  the  old  angler,  I  enquired  after  his 
place  of  abode,  and  happening  to  be  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  the  village  a  few  evenings  afterwards,  I  had  the 
curiosity  to  seek  him  out.  I  found  him  living  in  a 
small  cottage,  containing  only  one  room,  but  a  perfect 
curiosity  in  its  method  and  arrangement.  It  was  on 
the  skirts  of  the  village,  on  a  green  bank,  a  little  back 
from  the  road,  with  a  small  garden  in  front,  stocked 
with  kitchen  herbs,  and  adorned  with  a  few  flowers. 
The  whole  front  of  the  cottage  was  overrun  with  a 
honeysuckle.  On  the  top  was  a  ship  for  a  weather- 
cock. The  interior  was  fitted  up  in  a  truly  nautical 
style,  his  ideas  of  comfort  and  convenience  having 
been  acquired  on  the  berth-deck  of  a  man-of-war.  A 
hammock  was  slimg  from  the  ceiling,  which,  in  the 
daytime,  was  lashed  up  so  as  to  take  but  little  room. 

*  J.  Davors. 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


THE  ANGLER  477 

From  the  centre  of  the  chamber  hung  a  model  of  a 
ship,  of  his  own  workmanship.  Two  or  three  chairs,  a 
table,  and  a  large  sea-chest,  formed  the  principal  mov- 
ables. About  the  wall  were  stuck  up  naval  ballads, 
such  as  "Admiral  Hosier's  Ghost,"  '*  All  in  the  Downs," 
and  "Tom  Bowline,"  intermingled  with  pictures  of  sea- 
fights,  among  which  the  battle  of  Camperdown  held  a 
distinguished  place.  The  mantelpiece  was  decorated 
with  sea-shells;  over  which  hung  a  quadrant,  flanked 
by  two  woodcuts  of  most  bitter-looking  naval  com- 
manders. His  implements  for  angling  were  carefully 
disposed  on  nails  and  hooks  about  the  room.  On  a 
shelf  was  arranged  his  library,  containing  a  work  om 
angling,  much  worn,  a  Bible  covered  with  canvas,  am 
odd  volume  or  two  of  voyages,  a  nautical  almanac, 
and  a  book  of  songs. 

His  family  consisted  of  a  large  black  cat  with  one 
eye,  and  a  parrot  which  he  had  caught  and  tamed,  and 
educated  himself,  in  the  course  of  one  of  his  voyages; 
and  which  uttered  a  variety  of  sea  phrases  with  the 
hoarse  brattling  tone  of  a  veteran  boatswain.  The 
estabHshment  reminded  me  of  that  of  the  renowned 
Robinson  Crusoe;  it  was  kept  in  neat  order,  every- 
thing being  "stowed  away"  with  the  regularity  of  a 
ship  of  war;  and  he  informed  me  that  lie  "scoured  the 
deck  every  morning,  and  swept  it  between  meals." 

I  found  him  seated  on  a  bench  before  the  door, 
smoking  his  pipe  in  the  soft  evening  sunshine.  His 
cat  was  purring  soberly  on  the  threshold,  and  his 
parrot  describing  some  strange  evolutions  in  an  iron 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


478  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

ring  that  swung  in  the  centre  of  his  cage.  He  had 
been  angling  all  day,  and  gave  me  a  history  of  his 
sport  with  as  much  minuteness  as  a  general  would 
talk  over  a  campaign;  being  particularly  animated  in 
relating  the  manner  in  which  he  had  taken  a  large 
trout  which  had  completely  tasked  all  his  skill  and 
wariness,  and  which  he  had  sent  as  a  trophy  to  mine 
hostess  of  the  inn. 

How  comforting  it  is  to  see  a  cheerful  and  contented 
old  age;  and  to  behold  a  poor  fellow,  like  this,  after 
being  tempest-tost  through  life,  safely  moored  in  a 
snug  and  quiet  harbor  in  the  evening  of  his  days !  His 
happiness,  however,  sprung  from  within  himself,  and 
was  independent  of  external  circtimstances;  for  he  had 
that  inexhaustible  good-nature,  which  is  the  most 
precious  gift  of  Heaven;  spreading  itself  like  oil  over 
the  troubled  sea  of  thought,  and  keeping  the  mind 
smooth  and  equable  in  the  roughest  weather. 

On  inquiring  further  about  him,  I  learned  that  he 
was  a  universal  favorite  in  the  village,  and  the  oracle 
of  the  tap-room;  where  he  delighted  the  rustics  with 
his  songs,  and,  like  Sinbad,  astonished  them  with  his 
stories  of  strange  lands,  and  shipwrecks,  and  sea- 
fights.  He  was  much  noticed  too  by  gentlemen 
sportsmen  of  the  neighborhood;  had  taught  several  of 
them  the  art  of  angling;  and  was  a  privileged  visitor 
to  their  kitchens.  The  whole  tenor  of  his  life  was 
quiet  and  inoffensive,  being  principally  passed  about 
the  neighboring  streams,  when  the  weather  and  season 
were  favorable;  and  at  other  times  he  employed  him- 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


THE  ANGLER  479 

self  at  home,  preparing  his  fishing  tackle  for  the  next 
campaign,  or  manufacturing  rods,  nets,  and  flies,  for 
his  patrons  and  pupils  among  the  gentry. 

He  was  a  regular  attendant  at  church  on  Sundays, 
though  he  generally  fell  asleep  during  the  sermon. 
He  had  made  it  his  particular  request  that  when  he 
died  he  should  be  buried  in  a  green  spot,  which  he 
could  see  from  his  seat  in  church,  and  which  he  had 
marked  out  ever  since  he  was  a  boy,  and  had  thought 
of  when  far  from  home  on  the  raging  sea,  in  danger  of 
being  food  for  the  fishes — ^it  was  the  spot  where  his 
father  and  mother  had  been  buried. 

I  have  done,  for  I  fear  that  my  reader  is  growing 
weary;  but  I  could  not  refrain  from  drawing  the  pic- 
ture of  this  worthy  "brother  of  the  angle";  who  has 
made  me  more  than  ever  in  love  with  the  theory, 
though  I  fear  I  shall  never  be  adroit  in  the  practice  of 
his  art:  and  I  will  conclude  this  rambling  sketch  in  the 
words  of  honest  Izaak  Walton,  by  craving  the  blessing 
of  St.  Peter's  master  upon  my  reader,  *'and  upon  all 
that  are  true  lovers  of  virtue;  and  dare  trust  in  his 
providence;  and  be  quiet;  and  go  a  angling." 


yGoogk 


THE  LEGEND  OP  SLEEPY  HOLLOW 

rOUND   AMONG  THE    PAPERS   OF  THE  LATE  DIEDRICH 
KNICKERBOCKER 

A  pleasing  land  of  drowsy  head  it  was, 

Of  dreams  that  wave  before  the  half-shut  eye; 

And  of  gay  castles  in  the  clouds  that  pass, 
Forever  flushing  round  a  summer  sky. 

Castle  of  Indolence. 

In  the  bosom  of  one  of  those  spacious  coves  which 
indent  the  eastern  shore  of  the  Hudson,  at  that  broad 
expansion  of  the  river  denominated  by  the  ancient 
Dutch  navigators  the  Tappan  Zee,  and  where  they 
always  prudently  shortened  sail,  and  implored  the 
protection  of  St.  Nicholas  when  they  crossed,  there 
Hes  a  small  market-town  or  rural  port,  which  by  some 
is  called  Greensburgh,  but  which  is  more  generally  and 
properly  known  by  the  name  of  Tarry  Town.  This 
name  was  given,  we  are  told,  in  former  days,  by  the 
good  housewives  of  the  adjacent  country,  from  the 
inveterate  propensity  of  their  husbands  to  linger  about 
the  village  tavern  on  market  days.  Be  that  as  it  may, 
I  do  not  vouch  for  the  fact,  but  merely  advert  to  it,  for 
the  sake  of  being  precise  and  authentic.  Not  far  from 
this  village,  perhaps  about  two  miles,  there  is  a  little 
valley,  or  rather  lap  of  land,  among  high  hills,  which  is 

480 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW    481 

one  of  the  quietest  places  in  the  whole  world.  A  small 
brook  glides  through  it,  with  just  murmur  enough  to 
lull  one  to  repose;  and  the  occasional  whistle  of  a  quail, 
or  tapping  of  a  woodpecker,  is  almost  the  only  sound 
that  ever  breaks  in  upon  the  uniform  tranquillity. 

I  recollect  that,  when  a  stripling,  my  first  exploit  in 
squirrel-shooting  was  in  a  grove  of  tall  walnut-trees 
that  shades  one  side  of  the  valley.  I  had  wandered 
into  it  at  noontime,  when  all  nature  is  peculiarly 
quiet,  and  was  startled  by  the  roar  of  my  own  gun,  as 
it  broke  the  Sabbath  stillness  arotmd,  and  was  pro- 
longed and  reverberated  by  the  angry  echoes.  If  ever 
I  should  wish  for  a  retreat,  whither  I  might  steal  from 
the  world  and  its  distractions,  and  dream  quietly  away 
the  remnant  of  a  troubled  life,  I  know  of  none  more 
promising  than  this  little  valley. 

From  the  listless  repose  of  the  place,  and  the  pecu- 
liar character  of  its  inhabitants,  who  are  descendants 
from  the  original  Dutch  settlers,  this  sequestered  glen 
has  long  been  known  by  the  name  of  Sleepy  Hollow. 
and  its  rustic  lads  are  called  the  Sleepy  Hollow  Boys 
throughout  all  the  neighboring  country.  A  drowsy, 
dreamy  influence  seemts  to  hang  over  the  land,  and  to 
pervade  the  very  atmosphere.  Some  say  that  the 
place  was  bewitched  by  a  high  German  doctor,  during 
the  early  days  of  the  settlement;  others,  that  an  old 
Indian  chief,  the  prophet  or  wizard  of  his  tribe,  held 
his  powwows  there  before  the  country  was  discovered 
by  Master  Hendrick  Hudson.  Certain  it  is,  the  pla\;e 
still  continues  under  the  sway  of  some  witching  pow^  r. 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


482  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

that  holds  a  spell  over  the  minds  of  the  good  people, 
causing  them  to  walk  in  a  continual  reverie.  They  are 
given  to  all  kinds  of  marvellous  beliefs;  are  subject  to 
trances  and  visions;  and  frequently  see  strange  sights, 
and  hear  music  and  voices  in  the  air.  The  whole 
neighborhood  abounds  with  local  tales,  haunted  spots, 
and  twilight  superstitions;  stars  shoot  and  meteors 
glare  of  tener  across  the  valley  than  in  any  other  part 
of  the  cotmtry,  and  the  nightmare,  with  her  whole 
nine  fold,  seems  to  make  it  the  favorite  scene  of  her 
gambols. 

The  dominant  spirit,  however,  that  haunts  this 
enchanted  region,  and  seems  to  be  commander-in- 
chief  of  all  the  powers  of  the  air,  is  the  apparition  of  a 
figure  on  horseback  without  a  head.  It  is  said  by 
some  to  be  the  ghost  of  a  Hessian  trooper,  whose  head 
had  been  carried  away  by  a  cannon-ball,  in  some 
nameless  battle  during  the  Revolutionary  War;  and 
who  is  ever  and  anon  seen  by  the  coimtry  folk,  hurry- 
ing along  in  the  gloom  of  night,  as  if  on  the  wings  of  the 
wind.  His  hatmts  are  not  confined  to  the  valley,  but 
extend  at  times  to  the  adjacent  roads,  and  especially 
to  the  vicinity  of  a  church  at  no  great  distance. 
Indeed,  certain  of  the  most  authentic  historians  of 
those  parts,  who  have  been  careful  in  collecting  and 
collating  the  floating  facts  concerning  this  spectre, 
allege  that  the  body  of  the  trooper  having  been  buried 
in  the  churchyard,  the  ghost  rides  forth  to  the  scene 
of  battle  in  nightly  quest  of  his  head;  and  that  the 
rushing  speed  with  which  he  sometimes  passes  aloag 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW    483- 

the  Hollow,  like  a  midnight  blast,  is  owing  to  his 
being  belated,  and  in  a  htirry  to  get  back  to  the 
churchyard  before  daybreak. 

Such  is  the  general  purport  of  this  legendary  super- 
stition, which  has  furnished  materials  for  many  a  wild 
story  in  that  region  of  shadows;  and  the  spectre  is 
known,  at  all  the  country  firesides,  by  the  name  of  the 
Headless  Horseman  of  Sleepy  Hollow. 

It  is  remarkable  that  the  visionary  propensity  I 
have  mentioned  is  not  confined  to  the  native  inhabi- 
tants of  the  valley,  but  is  unconsciously  imbibed  by 
every  one  who  resides  there  for  a  time.  However 
wide  awake  they  may  have  been  before  they  entered 
that  sleepy  region,  they  are  sure,  in  a  Httle  time,  to 
inhale  the  witching  influence  of  the  air,  and  begin  to 
grow  imaginative — ^to  dream  dreams,  and  see  appa- 
ritions. 

I  mention  this  peaceful  spot  with  all  possible  laud; 
for  it  is  in  such  little  retired  Dutch  valleys,  found  here 
and  there  embosomed  in  the  great  State  of  New  York, 
that  population,  manners,  and  customs  remain  fixed; 
while  the  great  torrent  of  migration  and  improvement, 
which  is  making  such  incessant  changes  in  other  parts 
of  this  restless  country,  sweeps  by  them  tmobserved. 
They  are  like  those  little  nooks  of  still  water  which 
border  a  rapid  stream ;  where  we  may  see  the  straw  and 
bubble  riding  quietly  at  anchor,  or  slowly  revolving  in 
their  mimic  harbor,  tmdisturbed  by  the  rush  of  the 
passing  current.  Though  many  years  have  elapsed 
since  I  trod  the  drowsy  shades  of  Sleepy  Hollow,  yet  I 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


484  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

question  whether  I  shotdd  not  still  find  the  same  trees 
and  the  same  families  vegetating  in  its  sheltered 
bosom. 

In  this  by-place  of  nature,  there  abode,  in  a  remote 
period  of  American  history,  that  is  to  say,  some  thirty 
years  since,  a  worthy  wight  of  the  name  of  Ichabod 
Crafle;^  who  sojourned,  or,  as  he  expressed  it,"  tarried," 
in  Sleepy  Hollow,  for  the  purpose  of  instructing  the 
children  of  the  vicinity.  He  was  a  native  of  Connecti- 
cut f  a  State  which  supplies  the  Union  with  pioneers  for 
the  mind  as  well  as  for  the  forest,  and  sends  forth 
yearly  its  legions  of  frontier  woodsmen  and  country 
schoolmasters.  The  cognomen  of  Crane  was  not 
inapplicable  to  his  person.  He  was  tall,  but  exceed- 
ingly lank,  with  narrow  shoulders,  long  arms  and  legs, 
hands  that  dangled  a  mile  out  of  his  sleeves,  feet  that 
might  have  served  for  shovels,  and  his  whole  frame 
most  loosely  htmg  together.  His  head  was  small,  and 
flat  at  top,  with  huge  ears,  large  green  glassy  eyes, 
and  a  long  snipe  nose,  so  that  it  looked  like  a  weather- 
cock, perched  upon  his  spindle  neck,  to  tell  which  way 
the  wind  blew.  To  see  him  striding  along  the  profile 
of  a  hill  on  a  windy  day,  with  his  clothes  bagging  and 
fluttering  about  him,  one  might  have  mistaken  him  for 
the  genius  of  famine  descending  upon  the  earth,  or 
some  scarecrow  eloped  from  a  cornfield. 

His  schoolhouse  was  a  low  building  of  one  large 
room,  rudely  constructed  of  logs;  the  windows  partly 
glazed,  and  partly  patched  with  leaves  of  old  copy- 
books.   It  was  most  ingeniously  seciired  at  vacant 


yGoogk 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW    485 

hours,  by  a  withe  twisted  in  the  handle  of  the  doorr 
and  stakes  set  against  the  window  shutters;  so  that, 
though  a  thief  might  get  in  with  perfect  ease,  he 
would  find  some  embarrassment  in  getting  out;  an 
idea  most  probably  borrowed  by  the  architect,  Yost 
Van  Houten,  from  the  mystery  of  an  eel-pot.  The 
schoolhouse  stood  in  a  rather  lonely  but- pleasant 
situation,  just  at  the  foot  of  a  woody  hill,  with  a  brook 
running  close  by,  and  a  formidable  birch  tree  growing 
at  one  end  of  it.  From  hence  the  low  murmur  of  his 
pupils'  voices,  conning  over  their  lessons,  might  be 
heard  in  a  drowsy  summer's  day,  like  the  hum  of  a  bee- 
hive; interrupted  now  and  then  by  the  authoritative 
voice  of  the  master,  in  the  tone  of  menace  or  command ; 
or,  peradventure,  by  the  appalling  sound  of  the  birch, 
as  he  urged  some  tardy  loiterer  along  the  flowery  path 
of  knowledge.  Truth  to  say,  he  was  a  conscientious 
man,  and  ever  bore  in  mind  the  golden  maxim,  *' Spare 
the  rod  and  spoil  the  child."  ^ — Ichabod  Crane's 
scholars  certainly  were  not  spoiled. 

I  would  not  have  it  imagined,  however,  that  he  was 
one  of  those  cruel  potentates  of  the  school  who  joy  in 
the  smart  of  their  subjects;  on  the  contrary,  he 
administered  justice  with  discrimination  rather  than 
severity;  taking  the  burthen  off  the  backs  of  the  weak 
and  laying  it  on  those  of  the  strong.  Your  mere  puny 
stripling,  that  winced  at  the  least  flourish  of  the  rod, 
was  passed  by  with  indulgence;  but  the  claims  of  jus- 
tice were  satisfied  by  inflicting  a  double  portion  on 
some  little,  tough,  wrong-headed,  broad-skirted  Dutch 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


486  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

urchin,  who  sulked  and  swelled  and  erew  dogged  and 
sullen  beneath  the  birch.  AU  this  he  called  ''doing  his 
duty  by  their  parents";  and  he  never  inflicted  a 
chastisement  without  following  it  by  the  assurance,  so 
consolatory  to  the  smarting  urchin,  that  **he  would 
remember  it,  and  thank  him  for  it  the  longest  day  he 
had  to  live. " 

When  school  hours  were  over,  he  was  even  the  com- 
panion and  playmate  of  the  larger  boys;  and  on 
holiday  afternoons  would  convoy  some  of  the  smaller 
ones  home,  who  happened  to  have  pretty  sisters,  or 
good  housewives  for  mothers,  noted  for  the  comforts 
of  the  cupboard.  Indeed  it  behooved  him  to  keep  on 
good  terms  with  his  pupils.  The  revenue  arising  from 
his  school  was  small,  and  would  have  been  scarcely 
sufficient  to  ftimish  him  with  daily  bread,  for  he  was  a 
huge  feeder,  and  though  lank,  had  the  dilating  powers 
of  an  anaconda;  but  to  help  out  his  maintenance,  he 
was,  according  to  cotmtry  custom  in  those  parts, 
boarded  and  lodged  at  the  houses  of  the  farmers, 
whose  children  he  instructed.  With  these  he  lived 
successively  a  week  at  a  time;  thus  going  the  rounds  of 
the  neighborhood,  with  all  his  worldly  effects  tied  up  in 
a  cotton  handkerchief. 

That  all  this  might  not  be  too  onerous  on  the  purses 
of  his  rustic  patrons,  who  are  apt  to  consider  the  costs 
of  schooHng  a  grievous  burden,  and  schoolmasters  as 
mere  drones,  he  had  various  ways  of  rendering  himself 
both  useful  and  agreeable.  He  assisted  the  farmers 
occasionally  in  the  lighter  labors  of  their  farms;  helped 


yGoogk 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW    487 

to  make  hay;  mended  the  fences;  took  the  horses  to 
water;  drove  the  cows  from  pasture;  and  cut  wood  for 
the  winter  fire.  He  laid  aside,  too,  all  the  dominant 
dignity  and  absolute  sway  with  which  he  lorded  it  in 
his  little  empire,  the  school,  and  became  wonderfully 
gentle  and  ingratiating.  He  found  favor  in  the  eyes  of 
the  mothers,  by  petting  the  children,  particularly  the 
youngest;  and  like  the  lion  bold,  which  whilom  so 
magnanimously  the  lamb  did  hold,  ^  he  would  sit  with  a 
child  on  one  knee,  and  rock  a  cradle  with  his  foot  for 
whole  hours  together. 

In  addition  to  his  other  vocations,  he  was  the 
singing-n^aster  of  the  neighborhood,  and  picked  up 
many  bright  shillings  by  instructing  the  young  folks  in 
psalmody.  It  was  a  matter  of  no  little  vanity  to  him, 
on  Sundays,  to  take  his  station  in  front  of  the  church 
gallery,  with  a  band  of  chosen  sin^^rs;  where,  in  his 
own  mind,  he  completely  carried  away  the  palm  from 
the  parson.  Certain  it 'is,  his  voice  resounded  far 
above  all  the  rest  of  the  congregation;  and  there  are 
peculiar  quavers  still  to  be  heard  in  that  church,  and 
which  may  even  be  heard  half  a  mile  off,  qtiite  to  the 
opposite  side  of  the  mill-pond,  on  a  still  Sunday 
morning,  which  are  said  to  be  legitimately  descended 
from  the  nose  of  Ichabod  Crane.  Thus,  by  divers 
little  makeshifts  in  that  ingenious  way  which  is 
commonly  denominated  *'by  hook  and  by  crook,**  the 
worthy  pedagogue  got  on  tolerably  enough,  and  was 
thought,  by  all  who  understood  nothing  of  the  labor  pf 
headwork,  to  have  a  wonderfully  easy  life  of  it. 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


488  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

The  schoolmaster  is  generally  a  man  of  some  impor- 
tance' in  the  female  circle  of  a  rural  neighborhood; 
being  considered  a  kind  of  idle  gentlemanlike  person- 
age, of  vastly  superior  taste  and  accomplishments  to 
the  rough  country  swains,  and,  indeed,  inferior  in 
learning  only  to  the  parson.  His  appearance,  there- 
fore, is  apt  to  occasion  some  little  stir  at  the  tea-table 
of  a  farmhouse,  and  the  addition  of  a  supernumerary 
dish  of  cakes  or  sweetmeats,  or,  peradventure,  the 
parade  of  a  silver  teapot.  Our  man  of  letters,  there- 
fore, was  peculiarly  happy  in  the  smiles  of  all  the 
country  damsels.  How  he  would  figure  among  them 
in  the  churchyard,  between  services  on  Stmdays! 
gathering  grapes  for  them  from  the  wild  vines  that 
overrun  the  surrounding  trees;  reciting  for  their 
amusement  all  the  epitaphs  on  the  tombstones;  or 
sauntering,  with  a  whole  bevy  of  them,  along  the 
banks  of  the  adjacent  mill-pond;  while  the  more  bash- 
ful country  bumpkins  hung  sheepishly  back,  envying 
his  superior  elegance  and  address. 

From  his  half  itinerant  hfe,  also,  he  was  a  kind  of 
travelling  gazette,  carrying  the  whole  budget  of  local 
gossip  from  house  to  house;  so  that  his  appearance  was 
always  greeted  with  satisfaction.  He  was,  moreover, 
esteemed  by  the  women  as  a  man  of  great  erudition, 
for  he  had  read  several  books  quite  through,  and  was  a 
perfect  master  of  Cotton  Mather's  history  of  New 
England  witchcraft,*  in  which,  by  the  way,  he  most 
firmly  and  potently  believed. 

He  was,  in  fact,  an  odd  mixture  of  small  shrewdness 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW    489 

and  simple  credtility.  His  appetite  for  the  marvel- 
lous, and  his  powers  of  digesting  it,  were  equally 
extraordinary;  and  both  had  been  increased  by  his 
residence  in  this  spellbound  region.  No  tale  was  too 
gross  or  monstrous  for  his  capacious  swallow.  It  was 
often  his  delight,  after  his  school  was  dismissed  in  the 
afternoon,  to  stretch  himself  on  the  rich  bed  of  clover, 
bordering  the  little  brook  that  whimpered  by  his 
schoolhouse,  and  there  con  over  old  Mather's  direful 
tales,  until  the  gathering  dusk  of  the  evening  made  the 
printed  page,  a  mere  mist  before  his  eyes.  Then,  as  he 
wended  his  way,  by  swamp  and  stream  and  awful 
woodland,  to  the  farmhouse  where  he  happened  to  be 
quartered,  every  sound  of  nature,  at  that  witching 
hour,  fluttered  his  excited  imagination:  the  moan  of 
the  whip-poor-will*  from  the  hillside;  the  boding  cry 
of  the  tree-toad,  that  harbinger  of  storm;  the  dreary 
hooting  of  the  screech-owl,  or  the  sudden  rustling  in 
the  thicket  of  birds  frightened  from  their  roost.  The 
fire-flies,  too,  which  sparkled  most  vividly  in  the 
darkest  places,  now  and  then  startled  him,  as  one  of 
uncommon  brightness  would  stream  across  his  path; 
and  if,  by  chance,  a  huge  blockhead  of  a  beetle  came 
winging  his  blundering  flight  against  him,  the  poor 
varlet  was  ready  to  give  up  the  ghost,  with  the  idea 
that  he  was  struck  with  a  witch's  token.  His  only 
resource  on  such  occasions,  either  to  drown  thought,  or 

*  The  whip-poor-will  is  a  bird  which  is  only  heard  at  night. 
It  receives  its  name  from  its  note,  which  is  thought  to  resemble 
those  words. 

Digitized  by  CjOOQ  iC 


490  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

drive  away  evil  spirits,  was  to  sing  psalm  tunes; — and 
the  good  people  of  Sleepy  Hollow,  as  they  sat  by  their 
doors  of  an  evening,  were  often  filled  with  awe,  at 
hearing  his  nasal  melody,  "in  linked  sweetness  long 
drawn  out,"  ^  floating  from  the  distant  hill,  or  along  the 
dusky  road. 

Another  of  his  sources  of  fearful  pleasure  was  to 
pass  long  winter  evenings  with  the  old  Dutch  wives,  as 
they  sat  spinning  by  the  fire,  with  a  row  of  apples 
roasting  and  spluttering  along  the  hearth,  and  listen 
to  their  marvellous  tales  of  ghosts  and.  goblins,  and 
haunted  fields,  and  haunted  brooks,  and  haunted 
bridges,  and  haunted  houses,  and  particularly  of  the 
headless  horseman,  or  galloping  Hessian  of  the  Hol- 
low, as  they  sometimes  called  him.  He  would  delight 
them  equally  by  his  anecdotes  of  witchcraft,  and  of  the 
direful  omens  and  portentous  sights  and  sounds  in  the 
air,  which  prevailed  in  the  earlier  times  of  Connecticut; 
and  would  frighten  them  wofully  with  speculations 
upon  comets  and  shooting  stars;  and  with  the  alarming 
fact  that  the  world  did  absolutely  turn  round,  and 
that  they  were  half  the  time  topsy-turvy! 

But  if  there  was  a  pleasure  in  all  this,  while  snugly 
cuddling  in  the  chimney  corner  of  a  chamber  that  was 
all  of  a  ruddy  glow  from  the  crackling  wood  fire,  and 
where,  of  course,  no  spectre  dared  to  show  his  face,  it 
was  dearly  purchased  by  the  terrors  of  his  subsequent 
walk  homewards.  What  fearful  shapes  and  shadows 
beset  his  path  amidst  the  dim  and  ghastly  glare  of  a 
snowy  night! — ^With  what  wistful  look  did  he  eye 


yGoogk 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW    491 

every  trembling  ray  of  light  streaming  across  the 
waste  fields  from  some  distant  window! — How  often 
was  he  appalled  by  some  shrub  covered  with  snow, 
which,  like  a  sheeted  spectre,  beset  his  v^ry  path! — 
How  often  did  he  shrink  with  curdling  awe  at  the 
sound  of  his  own  steps  on  the  frosty  crust  beneath  his 
feet;  and  dread  to  look  over  his  shoulder,  lest  he 
should  behold  some  uncouth  being .  tramping  close 
behind  him! — and  how  often  was  he  thrown  into  com- 
plete dismay  by  some  rushing  blast,  howling  among  the 
trees,  in  the  idea  that  it  was  the  Galloping  Hessian  on 
one  of  his  nightly  scourings! 

All  these,  however,  were  mere  terrors  of  the  night, 
phantoms  of  the  mind  that  walk  in  darkness;  and 
though  he  had  seen  many  spectres  in  his  time,  and 
been  more  than  once  beset  by  Satan  in  divers  shapes, 
in  his  lonely  perambulations,  yet  daylight  put  an  end 
to  all  these  evils;  and  he  would  have  passed  a  pleasant 
life  of  it,  in  despite  of  the  devil  and  all  his  works,  if  his 
path  had  not  been  crossed  by  a  being  that  causes  more 
perplexity  to  mortal  man  than  ghosts,  goblins,  and  the 
whole  race  of  witches  put  together,  and  that  was — 2l 
woman. 

Among  the  musical  disciples  who  assembled,  one 
evening  in  each  week,  to  receive  his  instructions  in 
psalmody,  was  Katrina  Van  Tassel,  the  daughter  and 
only  child  of  a  substantial  Dutch  farmer.  She  was  a 
blooming  lass  of  fresh  eighteen;  plump  as  a  partridge; 
ripe  and  melting  and  rosy  cheeked  as  one  of  her  father's 
peaches,  and  universally  famed,  not  merely  for  her 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


492  THE  SKETCH  BOOR 

beauty,  but  her  vast  expectations.  She  was  withal  a 
little  of  a  coquette,  as  might  be  perceived  even  in  her 
dress,  which  was  a  mixture  of  ancient  and  modem 
fashions,  as  most  suited  to  set  off  her  charms.  She 
wore  the  ornaments  of  pure  yellow  gold  which  her 
great-great-grandmother  had  brought  over  from 
Saardam;  the  tempting  stomacher  of  the  olden  time; 
and  withal  a  provokingly  short  petticoat,  to  display 
the  prettiest  foot  and  ankle  in  the  country  round. 

Ichabod  Crane  had  a  soft  and  foolish  heart  towards 
the  sex;  and  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  that  so  tempt- 
ing a  morsel  soon  found  favor  in  his  eyes;  more 
especially  after  he  had  visited  her  in  her  paternal  man- 
sion. Old  Baltus  Van  Tassel  was  a  perfect  picture  of 
a  thriving,  contented,  liberal-hearted  farmer.  He  sel- 
dom, it  is  true,  sent  either  his  eyes  or  his  thoughts 
beyond  the  boundaries  of  his  own  farm;  but  within 
those  everything  was  snug,  happy,  and  well-condi- 
tioned. He  was  satisfied  with  his  wealth,  but  not 
proud  of  it;  and  piqued  himself  upon  the  hearty 
abundance,  rather  than  the  style  in  which  he  lived. 
His  stronghold  was  situated  on  the  banks  of  the  Hud- 
son, in  one  of  those  green,  sheltered,  fertile  nooks,  in 
which  the  Dutch  farmers  are  so  fond  of  nestling.  A 
great  elm-tree  spread  its  broad  branches  over  it;  at  the 
foot  of  which  bubbled  up  a  spring  of  the  softest  and 
sweetest  water,  in  a  little  well,  formed  of  a  barrel;  and 
then  stole  sparkling  away  through  the  grass,  to  a 
neighboring  brook,  that  bubbled  along  among  alders 
and  dwarf  willows.    Hard  by  the  farmhouse  was  a 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW    493 

vast  bam,  that  might  have  served  for  a  church;  every 
window  and  crevice  of  which  seemed  btirsting  forth 
with  the  treasures  of  the  farm;  the  flail  was  busily 
resounding  within  it  from  morning  to  night;  swallows 
and  martins  skimmed  twittering  about  the  eaves;  and 
rows  of  pigeons,  some  with  one  eye  turned  up,  as  if 
watching  the  weather,  some  with  their  heads  under 
their  wings,  or  buried  in  their  bosoms,  and  others 
swelling,  and  cooing,  and  bowing  about  their  dames, 
were  enjoying  the  sunshine  on  the  roof.  Sleek 
unwieldy  porkers  were  grunting  in  the  repose  and 
abundance  of  their  pens;  whence  sallied  forth,  now 
and  then,  troops  of  sucking  pigs,  as  if  to  snuff  the  air. 
A  stately  squadron  of  snowy  geese  were  riding  in  an 
adjoining  pond,  convoying  whole  fleets  of  ducks;  regi- 
ments of  turkeys  were  gobbling  through  the  farmyard, 
and  guinea  fowls  fretting  about  it,  like  ill-tempered 
housewives,  with  their  peevish  discontented  cry. 
Before  the  bam  door  strutted  the  gallant  cock,  that 
pattern  of  a  husband,  a  warrior,  and  a  fine  gentleman, 
clapping  his  burnished  wings  and  crowing  in  the  pride 
and  gladness  of  his  heart — sometimes  tearing  up  the 
earth  with  his  feet,  and  then  generously  calling  his 
ever-hungry  family  of  wives  and  children  to  enjoy  the 
rich  morsel  which  he  had  discovered. 

The  pedagogue's  mouth  watered,  as  he  looked  upon 
this  sumptuous  promise  of  luxurious  winter  fare.  In 
his  devouring  mind's  eye,  he  pictured  to  himself  every 
roasting-pig  nmning  about  with  a  pudding  in  his  belly, 
and  an  apple  in  his  mouth ;  the  pigeons  were  snugly  put 


yGoogk 


494  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

to  bed  in  a  comfortable  pie,  and  tucked  in  with  a  cover- 
let of  crust;  the  geese  were  swimming  in  their  own 
gravy;  and  the  ducks  pairing  cosily  in  dishes,  like  snug 
married  couples  with  a  decent  competency  of  onion 
sauce.  In  the  porkers  he  saw  carved  out  the  future 
sleek  side  of  bacon,  and  juicy  relishing  ham;  not  a 
turkey  but  he  beheld  daintily  trussed  up,  with  its 
gizzard  under  its  wing,  and,  peradventure,  a  necklace 
of  savory  sausages;  and  even  bright  chanticleer  him- 
self lay  sprawling  on  his  back,  in  a  side-dish,  with 
uplifted  claws,  as  if  craving  that  quarter  which  his 
chivalrous  spirit  disdained  to  ask  while  living. 

As  the  enraptured  Ichabod  fancied  all  this,  and  as  he 
rolled  his  great  green  eyes  over  the  fat  meadow-lands, 
the  rich  fields  of  wheat,  of  rye,  of  buckwheat,  and 
Indian  com,  and  the  orchards  burthened  with  ruddy 
fruit,  which  surrounded  the  warm  tenement  of  Van 
Tassel,  his  heart  yearned  after  the  damsel  who  was  to 
inherit  these  domains,  and  his  imagination  expanded 
with  the  idea,  how  they  might  be  readily  turned  into 
cash,  and  the  money  invested  in  immense  tracts  of 
wild  land,  and  shingle  palaces  in  the  wilderness. 
Nay,  his  busy  fancy  already  reaKzed  his  hopes,  and 
presented  to  him  the  blooming  Katrina,  with  a  whole 
family  of  children,  mounted  on  the  top  of  a  wagon 
loaded  with  household  trumpery,  with  pots  and  kettles 
dangling  beneath;  and  he  beheld  himself  bestriding  a 
pacing  mare,  with  a  colt  at  her  heels,  setting  out  for 
Kentucky,  Tennessee,  or  the  Lord  know;s  where. 

When  he  entered  the  house  the  conquest  of  his 


yGoogk 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW    495 

heart  was  complete.  It  was  one  of  those  spacious 
farmhouses,  with  high-ridged,  but  lowly-sloping  roofs^ 
built  in  the  style  handed  down  from  the  first  Dutch 
settlers;  the  low  projecting  eaves  forming  a  piazza 
along  the  front,  capable  of  being  closed  up  in  bad 
weather.  Under  this  were  hung  flails,  harness,  va*- 
nous  utensils  of  husbandry,  and  nets  for  fishing  in 
the  neighboring  river.  Benches  were  built  along  the 
sides  for  summer  use;  and  a  great  spinning-wheel  at 
one  end,  and  a  chum  at  the  other,  showed  the  various 
uses  to  which  this  important  porch  might  be  devoted. 
From  this  piazza  the  wondering  Ichabod  entered  the 
hall,  which  formed  the  centre  of  the  mansion  and  the 
place  of  usual  residence.  Here,  rows  of  resplendent 
pewter,  ranged  on  a  long  dresser,  dazzled  his  eyes. 
In  one  comer  stood  a  huge  bag  of  wool  ready  to  be 
spun;  in  another  a  quantity  of  linsey-woolsey  just  from 
the  loom;  ears  of  Indian  com  and  strings  of  dried 
apples  and  peaches  hung  in  gay  festoons  along  the 
walls,  mingled  with  the  gaud  of  red  peppers;  and  a 
door  left  ajar  gave  him  a  peep  into  the  best  parlor, 
where  the  claw-footed  chairs,  and  dark  mahogany 
tables,  shone  like  mirrors;  andirons,  with  their  accom- 
panjdng  shovel  and  tongs,  glistened  from  their  covert 
of  asparagus  tops;  mock-oranges  and  conch-shells 
decorated  the  mantelpiece;  strings  of  various  colored 
birds*  eggs  were  suspended  above  it;  a  great  ostrich  egg 
was  hung  from  the  centre  of  the  room,  and  a  comer 
cupboard,  knowingly  left  open,  displayed  immense 
treasures  of  old  silver  and  well-mended  china. 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


496  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

Prom  the  moment  Ichabod  laid  his  eyes  upon  these 
regions  of  delight,  the  peace  of  his  mind  was  at  an  end, 
and  his  only  study  was  how  to  gain  the  affections  of  the 
peerless  daughter  of  Van  Tassel.  In  this  enterprise, 
however,  he  had  more  real  diflSculties  than  generally 
fell  to  the  lot  of  a  knight-errant  of  yore,  who  seldom 
had  anything  but  giants,  enchanters,  fiery  dragons, 
and  such  like  easily-conquered  adversaries,  to  contend 
mth;  and  had  to  make  his  way  merely  through  gates 
of  iron  and  brass,  and  walls  of  adamant,  to  the  castle 
keep,  where  the  lady  of  his  heart  was  confined;  all 
which  he  achieved  as  easily  as  a  man  would  carve  his 
way  to  the  centre  of  a  Christmas  pie ;  and  then  the  lady 
gave  him  her  hand  as  a  matter  of  course.  Ichabod,  on 
the  contrary,  had  to  win  his  way  to  the  heart  of  a 
country  coquette,  beset  with  a  labyrinth  of  whims  and 
caprices,  which  were  forever  presenting  new  difficul- 
ties and  impediments;  and  he  had  to  encounter  a  host 
of  fearful  adversaries  of  real  flesh  and  blood,  the 
numerous  rustic  admirers,  who  beset  every  portal  to 
her  heart;  keeping  a  watchful  and  angry  eye  upon 
each  other,  but  ready  to  fly  out  in  the  common  cause 
against  any  new  competitor. 

Among  these  the  most  formidable  was  a  burly, 
roaring,  roystering  blade,  of  the  name  of  Abraham,  or, 
according  to  the  Dutch  abbreviation,  Brom  Van 
Brunt,  the  hero  of  the  country  round,  which  rang  with 
his  feats  of  strength  and  hardihood.  He  was  broad- 
shouldered  and  double-jointed,  with  short  curly  black 
hair,  and  a  bluff,  but  not  unpleasant  countenance. 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW    497 

having  a  mingled  air  of  fun  and  arrogance.  From  his 
Herculean  frame  and  great  powers  of  limb,  he  had 
received  the  nickname  of  Brom  Bones,  by  which  he 
was  universally  known.  He  was  famed  for  great 
knowledge  and  skill  in  horsemanship,  being  as  dex- 
terous on  horseback  as  a  Tartar.  He  was  foremost  at 
all  races  and  cock-fights;  and,  with  the  ascendency 
which  bodily  strength  acquires  in  rustic  Ufe,  was  the 
umpire  in  all  disputes,  setting  his  hat  on  one  side,  and 
giving  his  decisions  with  an  air  and  tone  admitting 
of  no  gainsay  or  appeal.  He  was  always  ready  for 
either  a  fight  or  a  frolic;  but  had  more  mischief  than 
ill-will  in  his  composition;  and,  with  all  his  overbearing 
roughness,  there  was  a  strong  dash  of  waggish  good- 
humor  at  bottom.  He  had  three  or  four  boon  com- 
panions, who  regarded  him  as  their  model,  and  at  the 
head  of  whom  he  scoured  the  country,  attending  every 
scene  of  feud  or  merriment  for  miles  round.  In  cold 
weather  he  was  distinguished  by  a  fur  cap,  surmounted 
with  a  flaunting  fox's  tail;  and  when  the  folks  at  a 
country  gathering  descried  this  well-known  crest  at  a 
distance,  whisking  about  among  a  squad  of  hard 
riders,  they  always  stood  by  for  a  squall.  Sometimes 
his  crew  would  be  heard  dashing  along  past  the  farm- 
houses at  midnight,  with  whoop  and  halloo,  like  a 
troop  of  Don  Cossacks;  and  the*  old  dames,  startled 
out  of  their  sleep,  would  listen  for  a  moment  till  the 
hurry-scurry  had  clattered  by,  and  then  exclaim, 
"Ay,  there  goes  Brom  Bones  and  his  gang!"  The 
neighbors  looked  upon  him  with  a  mixture  of  awe. 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


498  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

admiration,  and  good  will;  and  when  any  madcap 
prank,  or  rustic  brawl,  occurred  in  the  vicinity,  always 
shook  their  heads,  and  warranted  Brom  Bones  was  at 
the  bottom  of  it. 

This  rantipole  hero^  had  for  some  time  singled  out 
the  blooming  Katrina  for  the  object  of  his  tmcouth 
gallantries,  and  though  his  amorous  toyings  were 
something  like  the  gentle  caresses  and  endearments  of 
a  bear,  yet  it  was  whispered  that  she  did  not  altogether 
discourage  his  hopes.  Certain  it  is,,  his  advances  were 
signals  for  rival  candidates  to  retire,  who  felt  no  incli- 
nation to  cross  a  lion  in  his  amours;  insomuch,  that 
when  his  horse  was  seen  tied  to  Van  Tassel's  paling,  on 
a  Sunday  night,  a  sure  sign  that  his  master  was 
courting,  or,  as  it  is  termed,  "sparking,"  within,  all 
other  suitors  passed  by  in  despair,  and  carried  the  war 
into  other  quarters. 

Such  was  the  formidable  rival  with  whom  Ichabod 
Crane  had  to  contend,  and,  considering  all  things,  a 
stouter  man  than  he  would  have  shnmk  from  the  com- 
petition, and  a  wiser  man  would  have  despaired.  He 
had,  however,  a  happy  n^xture  of  pliability  and  perse- 
verance in  his  nature;  he  was  in  form  and  spirit  like  a 
supple-jack — ^3rielding,  but  tough;  though  he  bent,  he 
never  broke;  and  though  he  bowed  beneath  the 
slightest  pressure,  yet,  the  moment  it  was  away — 
jerk!  he  was  as  erect,  and  carried  his  head  as  high  as 
ever. 

To  have  taken  the  field  openly  against  his  rival 
would  have  been  madness;  for  he  was  not  a  man  to  be 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW    499 

thwarted  in  his  amours,  any  more  than  that  stormy 
lover,  Achilles.  Ichabod,  therefore,  made  his  ad- 
vances in  a  quiet  and  gently-insinuating  manner. 
Under  cover  of  his  character  of  singing-master,  he 
made  frequent  visits  at  the  farmhouse;  not  that  he  had 
anything  to  apprehend  from  the  meddlesome  inter- 
ference of  parents,  which  is  so  often  a  stumbling- 
block  in  the  path  of  lovers.  Bait  Van  Tassel  was  an 
easy  indulgent  soul;  he  loved  his  daughter  better  even 
than  his  pipe,  and,  like  a  reasonable  man  and  an 
excellent  father,  let  her  have  her  way  in  everything. 
His  notable  little  wife,  too,  had  enough  to  do  to 
attend  to  her  housekeeping  and  manage  her  poultry; 
for,  as  she  sagely  observed,  ducks  and  geese  are  foolish 
things,  and  must  be  looked  after,  but  girls  can  take 
care  of  themselves.  Thus  while  the  busy  dame 
bustled  about  the  house,  or  plied  her  spinning-wheel  at 
one  end  of  the  piazza,  honest  Bait  would  sit  smoking 
his  evening  pipe  at  the  other,  watching  the  achieve- 
ments of  a  little  wooden  warrior,  who,  armed  with  a 
sword  in  each  hand,  was  most  valiantly  fighting  the 
wind  on  the  pinnacle  of  the  bam.  In  the  meantime, 
Ichabod  would  carry  o^  his  suit  with  the  daughter  by 
the  side  of  the  spring  under  the  great  elm,  or  saunter- 
ing along  in  the  twilight,  that  hour  so  favorable  to  the 
lover's  eloquence. 

I  profess  not  to  know  how  women's  hearts  are  wooed 
and  won.  To  me  they  have  always  been  matters  of 
riddle  and  admiration.^  Some  seem  to  have  but  one 
vulnerable  point,  or  door  of  access ;  while  others  have  a 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


500  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

thousand  avenues,  and  may  be  captured  in  a  thousand 
different  ways.  It  is  a  great  triumph  of  skill  to  gain 
the  former,  but  a  still  greater  proof  of  generalship  to 
maintain  possession  of  the  latter,  for  the  man  must 
battle  for  his  fortress  at  every  door  and  window. 
He  who  wins  a  thousand  common  hearts  is  therefore 
entitled  to  some  renown;  but  he  who  keeps  undisputed 
sway  over  the  heart  of  a  coquette  is  indeed  a  hero. 
Certain  it  is,  this  was  not  the  case  with  the  redoubtable 
Brom  Bones;  and  from  the  moment  Ichabod  Crane 
made  his  advances,  the  interests  of  the  former  evi- 
dently declined ;  his  horse  was  no  longer  seen  tied  at  the 
palings  on  Sunday  nights,  and  a  deadly  feud  grad- 
ually arose  between  him  and  the  preceptor  of  Sleepy 
Hollow. 

Brom,  who  had  a  degree  of  rough  chivalry  in  his 
nature,  would  fain  have  carried  matters  to  open  war- 
fare, and  have  settled  their  pretensions  to  the  lady, 
according  to  the  mode  of  those  most  concise  and 
simple  reasoners,  the  knights-errant  of  yore — ^by  single 
combat;  but  Ichabod  was  too  conscious  of  the  superior 
might  of  his  adversary  to  enter  the  lists  against  him: 
he  had  overheard  a  boast  of  Bones,  that  he  would 
"double  the  schoolmaster  up,  and  lay  him  on  a  shelf  of 
his  own  schoolhouse";  and  he  was  too  wary  to  give 
him  an  opportunity.  There  was  something  extremely 
provoking  in  this  obstinately  pacific  system;  it  left 
Brom  no  alternative  but  to  draw  upon  the  funds  of 
rustic  waggery  in  his  disposition,  and  to  play  off  boor- 
ish practical  jokes  upon  his  rival.    Ichabod  became 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW    501 

the  object  of  whimsical  persecution  to  Bones  and  his 
gang  of  rough  riders.'  They  harried  his  hitherto 
peaceful  domains;  smoked  out  his  singing  school,  by- 
stopping  up  the  chimney;  broke  into  the  schoolhouse 
at  night,  in  spite  of  its  formidable  fastenings  of  withe 
and  window  stakes,  and  turned  everything  topsy- 
turvy: so  that  the  poor  schoolmaster  began  to  think 
all  the  witches  in  the  country  held  their  meetings 
there.  But  what  was  still  more  annoying,  Brom-  took 
all  opportunities  of  turning  him  into  ridicule  in 
presence  of  his  mistress,  and  had  a  scotmdrel  dog 
whom  he  taught  to  whine  in  the  most  ludicrous  man- 
ner, and  introduced  as  a  rival  of  Ichabod*s  to  instruct 
Ker  in  psalmody. 

In  this  way  matters  went  on  for  some  time,  without 
producing  any  material  effect  on  the  relative  situation 
of  the  contending  powers.  On  a  fine  autumnal  after- 
noon, Ichabod,  in  pensive  mood,  sat  enthroned  on  the 
lofty  stool  whence  he  usually  watched  all  the  concerns 
of  his  little  literary  realm.  In  his  hand  he  swayed  a 
ferule,  that  sceptre  of  despotic  power;  the  birch  of 
justice  reposed  on  three  nails,  behind  the  throne,  a 
constant  terror  to  evil-doers;  while  on  the  desk  before 
him  might  be  seen  sundry  contraband  articles  and  pro- 
hibited weapons,  detected  upon  the  persons  of  idle 
urchins;  such  as  half -munched  apples,  popguns, 
whirligigs,  fly-cages,  and  whole  legions  of  rampant 
little  paper  game-cocks.  Apparently  there  had  been 
some  appalling  act  of  justice  recently  inflicted,  for  his 
scholars  were  all  busily  intent  upon  their  books,  or 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


502  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

slyly  whispering  behind  them  with  one  eye  kept  upon 
the  master;  and  a  kind  of  buzzing  stillness  reigned 
throughout  the  schoolroom.  It  was  suddenly  inter- 
rupted by  the  appearance  of  a  negro,  in  tow-cloth 
jacket  and  trowsers,  a  round-crowned  fragment  of  a 
hat,  like  the  cap  of  Mercury,  and  mounted  on  the 
back  of  a  ragged,  wild,  half -broken  colt,  which  he  man- 
aged with  a  rope  by  way  of  halter.  He  came  clattering 
up  to  the  school  door  with  an  invitation  to  Ichabod  to 
attend  a  merry-making  or  '*  quilting  frolic, "  to  be  held 
that  evening  at  Mjniheer  Van  Tassel's;  and  having 
delivered  his  message  with  that  air  of  importance  and 
effort  at  fine  language,  which  a  negro  is  apt  to  display 
on  petty  embassies  of  the  kind,  he  dashed  over  the 
brook,  and  was  seen  scampering  away  up  the  hollow, 
full  of  the  importance  and  hurry  of  his  mission. 

All  was  now  bustle  and  hubbub  in  the  late  quiet 
schoolroom.  The  scholars  were  hurried  through  their 
lessons,  without  stopping  at  trifles;  those  who  were 
nimble  skipped  over  half  with  impunity,  and  those 
who  were  tardy  had  a  smart  application  now  and  then 
in  the  rear,  to  quicken  their  speed,  or  help  them  over  a 
tall  word.  Books  were  flung  aside  without  being  put 
away  on  the  shelves,  inkstands  were  overturned, 
benches  thrown  down,  and  the  whole  school  was  turned 
loose  an  hour  before  the  usual  time,  bursting  forth  like 
a  legion  of  young  imps,  yelping  and  racketing  about 
the  green,  in  joy  at  their  early  emancipation. 

The  gallant  Ichabod  now  spent  at  least  an  extra 
half  hour  at  his  toilet,  brushing  and  furbishing  up  his 


yGoogk 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW    503 

best,  and  indeed  only,  suit  of  rusty  black,  and  arranging 
his  looks  by  a  bit  of  broken  looking-glass,  that  hung  up 
in  the  schoolhouse.  That  he  might  make  his  appear- 
ance before  his  mistress  in  the  true  style  of  a  cavalier, 
he  borrowed  a  horse  from  the  farmer  with  whom  he 
was  domiciliated,  a  choleric  old  Dutchman,  of  the 
name  of  Hans  Van  Ripper,  and,  thus  gallantly 
mounted,  issued  forth,  like  a  knight-errant  in  quest  of 
adventures.  But  it  is  meet  I  should,  in  the  true 
spirit  of  romantic  story,  give  some  account  of  the  looks 
and  equipments  of  my  hero  and  his  steed.  The  ani- 
mal he  bestrode  was  a  broken-down  plough-horse, 
thathad  outlived  almost  everything  buthis  viciousness. 
He  was  gaunt  and  shagged,  with  a  ewe  neck  and  a  head 
like  a  hammer;  his  rusty  mane  and  tail  were  tangled 
and  knotted  with  burrs;  one  eye  had  lost  its  pupil,  and 
was  glaring  and  spectral;  but  the  other  had  the  gleam 
of  a  genuine  devil  in  it.  Still  he  must  have  had  fire 
and  mettle  in  his  day,  if  we  may  judge  from  the  name 
he  bore  of  Gunpowder.  He  had,  in  fact,  been  a  favor- 
ite steed  of  his  master's,  the  choleric  Van  Ripper,  who 
was  a  furious  rider,  and  had  infused,  very  probably, 
some  of  his  own  spirit  into  the  animal;  for,  old  and 
broken-down  as  he  looked,  there  was  more  of  the  lurk- 
ing devil  in  him  than  in  any  young  filly  in  the  country. 
Ichabod  was  a  suitable  figure  for  such  a  steed.  He 
rode  with  short  stirrups,  which  brought  his  knees 
nearly  up  to  the  pommel  of  the  saddle;  his  sharp 
elbows  stuck  out  like  grasshoppers*;  he  carried  his 
whip  perpendicularly  in  his  hand,  like  a  sceptre,  and,  as 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


504  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

his  horse  jogged  on,  the  motion  of  his  arms  was  not 
unlike  the  flapping  of  a  pair  of  wings.  A  small  wool 
hat  rested  on  the  top  of  his  nose,  for  so  his  scanty  strip 
of  forehead  might  be  called;  and  the  skirts  of  his  black 
coat  fluttered  out  almost  to  the  horse's  tail.  Such 
was  the  appearance  of  Ichabod  and  his  steed,  as  they 
shambled  out  of  the  gate  of  Hans  Van  Ripper,  and  it 
was  altogether  such  an  apparition  as  is  seldom  to  be 
met  with  in  broad  daylight. 

It  was,  as  I  have  said,  a  fine  auttimnal  day,  the  sky 
was  clear  and  serene,  and  nature  wore  that  rich  and 
golden  livery  which  we  always  associate  with  the  idea 
of  abundance.  The  forests  had  put  on  their  sober 
brown  and  yellow,  while  some  trees  of  the  tenderer 
kind  had  been  nipped  by  the  frosts  into  brilliant  dyes 
of  orange,  purple,  and  scarlet.  Streaming  files  of 
wild  ducks  began  to  make  their  appearance  high  in  the 
air;  the  bark  of  the  sqtdrrel  might  be  heard  from  the 
groves  of  beech  and  hickory  nuts,  and  the  pensive 
whistle  of  the  quail  at  intervals  from  the  neighboring 
stubble-field. 

The  small  birds  were  taking  their  farewell  banquets. 
In  the  fulness  of  their  revelry,  they  fluttered,  chirping 
and  frolicking,  from  bush  to  bush,  and  tree  to  tree, 
capricious  from  the  very  profusion  and  variety  around 
them.  There  was  the  honest  cocli-robin,  the  favorite 
game  of  stripUng  sportsmen,  with  its  loud  querulous 
note;  and  the  twittering  blackbirds  ^ying  in  sable 
clouds;  and  the  golden- winged  woodpecker,  with  his 
crimson  crest,  his  broad  black  gorget,  and  splendid 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW    504 

pltunage;  and  the  cedar  bird,  with  its  red-tipt  wings 
and  yellow-tipt  tail,  and  its  little  monteiro  cap  of 
feathers;  and  the  blue-jay,  that  noisy  coxcomb,  in  hi? 
gay  light-blue  coat  and  white  under-clothes ;  screaming 
and  chattering,  nodding  and  bobbing  and  bowing,  and 
pretending  to  be  on  good  terms  with  every  songster  of 
the  grove. 

As  Ichabod  jogged  slowly  on  his  way,  his  eye,  ever 
open  to  every  symptom  of  culinary  abundance,  ranged 
with  delight  over  the  treasures  of  jolly  autumn.  On 
all  sides  he  beheld  vast  store  of  apples;  some  hanging 
in  oppressive  opulence  on  the  trees ;  some  gathered  into 
baskets  and  barrels  for  the  market;  others  heaped  up 
in  rich  piles  for  the  cider-press.  Farther  on  he  beheld 
great  fields  of  Indian  com,  with  its  golden  ears  peeping 
from  their  leafy  coverts,  and  holding  out  the  promise 
of  cakes  and  hasty  pudding;  and  the  yellow  pumpkins 
lying  beneath  them,  turning  up  their  fair  round  bellies 
to  the  sun,  and  giving  ample  prospects  of  the  most 
luxurious  of  pies;  and  anon  he  passed  the  fragrant 
buckwheat  fields,  breathing  the  odor  of  the  beehive, 
and  as  he  beheld  them,  soft  anticipation  stole  over  his 
mind  of  dainty  slapjacks,  well  buttered,  and  garnished 
with  honey  or  treacle,  by  the  delicate  Uttle  dimpled 
hand  of  Katrina  Van  Tassel. 

Thus  feeding  his  mind  with  many  sweet  thoughts 
and  ** sugared  suppositions,"  he  journeyed  along  the 
sides  of  a  range  of  hills  which  look  out  upon  some  of  the 
goodliest  scenes  of  the  mighty  Hudson.  The  sun  grad- 
tially  wheeled  his  broad  disk  down  into  the  w^t.     The 


yGoogk 


5o6  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

wide  bosom  of  the  Tappan  Zee  lay  motionless  and 
glassy,  excepting  that  here  and  there  a  gentle  tindula- 
tion  waved  and  prolonged  the  blue  shadow  of  the 
distant  mountain.  A  few  amber  clouds  floated  in  the 
sky,  without  a  breath  of  air  to  move  them.  The  hori- 
zon was  of  a  fine  golden  tint,  changing  gradually  into 
a  pure  apple  green,  and  from  that  into  the  deep  blue 
of  the  mid-heaven.  A  slanting  ray  lingered  on  the 
woody  crests  of  the  precipices  that  overhung  some 
parts  of  the  river,  giving  greater  depth  to  the  dark- 
gray  and  purple  of  their  rocky  sides.  A  sloop  was 
loitering  in  the  distance,  dropping  slowly  down  with 
the  tide,  her  sail  hanging  uselessly  against  the  mast; 
and  as  the  reflection  of  the  sky  gleamed  along  the  still 
water,  it  seemed  as  if  the  vessel  was  suspended  in  the 
air. 

It  was  toward  evening  that  Ichabod  arrived  at  the 
castle  of  the  Heer  Van  Tassel,  which  he  found  thronged 
with  the  pride  and  flower  of  the  adjacent  countryc 
Old  farmers,  a  spare  leathern-faced  race,  in  homespun 
coats  and  breeches,  blue-stockings,  huge  shoes,  and 
magnificent  pewter  buckles.  Their  brisk  withered 
little  dames,  in  close  crimped  caps,  long-waisted  short- 
gowns,  homespun  petticoats,  with  scissors  and  pin- 
cushions, and  gay  calico  pockets  hanging  on  the 
outside.  Buxom  lasses,  almost  as  antiquated  as  their 
mothers,  excepting  where  a  straw  hat,  a  fine  ribbon,  or 
perhaps  a  white  frock,  gave  symptoms  of  city  innova- 
tion. The  sons,  in  short  square-skirted  coats  with 
rows  of  stup^idous  brass  buttons,  and  their  hair 

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THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW    507 

generally  queued  in  the  fashion  of  the  times,  especially 
if  they  could  procure  an  eel-skin  for  the  purpose,  it 
being  esteemed,  throughout  the  country,  as  a  potent 
nourisher  and  strengthener  of  th^  hair. 

Brom  Bones,  however,  was  the  hero  of  the  scene, 
having  come  to  the  gathering  on  his  favorite  steed 
Daredevil,  a  creattire,  like  himself,  full  of  mettle  and 
mischief,  and  which  no  one  but  himself  could  manage. 
He  was,  in  fact,  noted  for  preferring  vicious  animals, 
given  to  all  kinds  of  tricks,  which  kept  the  rider  in 
constant  risk  of  his  neck,  for  he  held  a  tractable  well- 
broken  horse  as  unworthy  of  a  lad  of  spirit. 

Fain  would  I  pause  to  dwell  upon  the  world  of 
charms  that  burst  upon  the  enraptured  gaze  of  my 
hero,  as  he  entered  the  state  parlor  of  Van  Tassel's 
mansion.  Not  those  of  the  bevy  of  buxom  lasses, 
with  their  luxurious  display  of  red  and  white;  but  the 
ample  charms  of  a  genuine  Dutch  country  tea-table,' 
in  the  stmiptuous  time  of  autumn.  Such  heaped-up 
platters  of  cakes  of  various  and  almost  indescribable 
kinds,  known  only  tovexperienced  Dutch  housewives! 
There  was  the  doughty  doughnut,  the  tenderer  oly 
koek,  and  the  crisp  and  crumbUng  cruller;  sweet  cakes 
and  short  cakes,  ginger  cakes  and  honey  cakes,  and  the 
whole  family  of  cakes.  And  then  there  were  apple 
pies  and  peach  pies  and  pumpkin  pies;  besides  slices  of 
ham  and  smoked  beef;  and  moreover  delectable  dishes 
of  preserved  plums,  and  peaches,  and  pears,  and 
quinces;  not  to  mention  broiled  shad  and  roasted 
chickens;  together  with  bowls  of  milk  and  cream,  aU 

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5o8  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

mingled  higgledy-piggledy,  pretty  much  as  I  have 
enumerated  them,  with  the  motherly  teapot  sending 
up  its  clouds  of  vapor  from  the  midst — Heaven  bless 
the  mark !  I  want  breath  and  time  to  discuss  this  ban- 
quet as  it  deserves,  and  am  too  eager  to  get  on  with  my 
story.  Happily,  Ichabod  Crane  was  not  in  so  great  a 
hurry  as  his  historian,  but  did  ample  justice  to  every 
dainty. 

He  was  a  kind  and  thankful  creature,  whose  heart 
dilated  in  proportion  as  his  skin  was  filled  with  good 
cheer;  and  whose  spirits  rose  with  eating  as  some  men's 
do  with  drink.  He  could  not  help,  too,  rolling  his 
large  eyes  round  him  as  he  ate,  and  chuckling  with  the 
possibility  that  he  might  one  day  be  lord  of  all  this 
scene  of  almost  unimaginable  luxury  and  splendor. 
Then,  he  thought,  how  soon  he  'd  turn  his  back  upon 
the  old  schoolhouse;  snap  his  fingers  in  the  face  of 
Hans  Van  Ripper,  and  every  other  niggardly  patron, 
and  kick  any  itinerant  pedagogue  out  of  doors  that 
should  dare  to  call  him  conM-ade! 

Old  Baltus  Van  Tassel  moved  about  among  his 
guests  with  a  face  dilated  with  content  and  good 
humor,  rotind  and  jolly  as  the  harvest  moon.  His 
hospitable  attentions  were  brief,  but  expressive,  being 
confined  to  a  shake  of  the  hand,  a  slap  on  the  shoulder, 
a  loud  laugh,  and  a  pressing  invitation  to  "fall  to,  and 
help  themselves.  *^' 

And  now  the  sound  of  the  music  from  the  common 
room,  or  hall,  stimmoned  to  the  dance.  The  musician 
was  an  old  gray-headed  negro,  who  had  been  the  itin- 

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THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW    509 

erant  orchestra  of  the  neighborhood  for  more  than 
half  a  centtiry.  His  instrument  was  as  old  and  bat- 
tered as  himself.  The  greater  part  of  the  time  he 
scraped  on  two  or  three  strings,  accompanying  every 
movement  of  the  bow  with  a  motion  of  the  head; 
bowing  almost  to  the  ground,  and  stamping  with  his 
foot  whenever  a  fresh  couple  were  to  start. 

Ichabod  prided  himself  upon  his  dancing  as  much  as 
upon  his  vocal  powers.  Not  a  limb,  not  a  fibre  about 
him  was  idle;  and  to  have  seen  his  loosely  hung  frame 
in  full  motion,  and  clattering  about  the  room,  you 
would  have  thought  Saint  Vitus  himself,  that  blessed 
patron  of  the  dance,  was  figuring  before  you  in  person. 
He  was  the  admiration  of  all  the  negroes;  who,  having 
gathered,  of  all  ages  and  sizes,  from  the  farm  and  the 
neighborhood,  stood  forming  a  pyramid  of  shining 
black  faces  at  every  door  and  window,  gazing  with 
delight  at  the  scene,  rolling  their  white  eyeballs,  and 
showing  grinning  rows  of  ivory  from  ear  to  ear.  How 
could  the  flogger  of  urchins  be  otherwise  than  animated 
and  joyous?  the  lady  of  his  heart  was  his  partner  in  the 
dance,  and  smiling  graciously  in  reply  to  all  his  amo- 
rous oglings;  while  Brom  Bones,  sorely  smitten  with 
love  and  jealousy,  sat  brooding  by  himself  in  one 
comer. 

When  the  dance  was  at  an  end,  Ichabod  was 
attracted  to  a  knot  of  the  sager  folks,  who,  with  old 
Van  Tassel,  sat  smoking  at  one  end  of  the  piazza, 
gossiping  over  former  times,  and  drawing  out  long 
stories  about  the  war. 


yGoogk 


510  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

This  neighborhood,  at  the  time  of  which  I  am 
speaking,  was  one  of  those  highly-favored  places 
which  abound  with  chronicle  and  great  men.  The 
British  and  American  line  had  run  near  it  during 
the  war;  it  had,  therefore,  been  the  scene  of  ma- 
rauding, and  infested  with  refugees,  cow-boys,  and 
all  kinds  of  border  chivalry.  Just  suflBcient  time 
had  elapsed  to  enable  each  story-teller  to  dress  up 
his  tale  with  a  little  becoming  fiction,  and,  in  the 
indistinctness  of  his  recollection,  to  make  himself  the 
hero  of  every  exploit. 

There  was  the  story  of  Dofifue  Martling,  a  large  blue 
bearded  Dutchman,  who  had  nearly  taken  a  British 
frigate  with  an  old  iron  nine-pounder  from  a  mud 
breastwork,  only  that  his  gun  burst  at  the  sixth  dis- 
charge. And  there  was  an  old  gentleman  who  shall  be 
nameless,  being  too  rich  a  mynheer  to  be  lightly  men- 
tioned, who,  in  the  battle  of  White-plains,  being  an 
excellent  master  of  defence,  parried  a  musket  ball 
with  a  small  sword,  insomuch  that  he  absolutely  felt  it 
whiz  round  the  blade,  and  glance  ofif  at  the  hilt:  in 
proof  of  which,  he  was  ready  at  any  time  to  show  the 
sword,  with  the  hilt  a  little  bent.  There  were  several 
more  that  had  been  equally  great  in  the  field,  not  one 
of  whom  but  was  persuaded  that  he  had  a  considerable 
hand  in  bringing  the  war  to  a  happy  termination. 

But  all  these  were  nothing  to  the  tales  of  ghosts  and 
apparitions  that  succeeded.  The  neighborhood  is  rich 
in  legendary  treasures  of  the  kind.  Local  tales  and 
superstitions  thrive  best  in  these  sheltered  long-settled 

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THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW    511 

retreats;  but  are  trampled  tinderfoot  by  the  shifting 
throng  that  forms  the  population  of  most  of  our 
country  places.  Besides,  there  is  no  encouragement 
for  ghosts  in  most  of  our  villages,  for  they  have 
scarcely  had  time  to  finish  their  first  nap,  and  turn 
themselves  in  their  graves,  before  their  surviving 
friends  have  travelled  away  from  the  neighborhood;  so 
that  when  they  turn  out  at  night  to  walk  their  rounds, 
they  have  no  acquaintance  left  to  call  upon.  This  is 
perhaps  the  reason  why  we  so  seldom  hear  of  ghosts 
except  in  our  long-established  Dutch  commtmities. 

The  immediate  cause,  however,  of  the  prevalence 
of  supernatural  stories  in  these  parts  was  doubtless 
owing  to  the  vicinity  of  Sleepy  Hollow.  There  was  a 
contagion  in  the  very  air  that  blew  from  that  haunted 
region;  it  breathed  forth  an  atmosphere  of  dreams  and 
fancies  infecting  all  the  land.  Several  of  the  Sleepy 
Hollow  people  were  present  at  Van  Tassel's  and,  as 
usual,  were  doling  out  their  wild  and  wonderful 
legends.  Many  dismal  tales  were  told  about  funeral 
trains,  and  motiming  cries  and  wailings  heard  and  seen 
about  the  great  tree  where  the  tmfortunate  Major 
Andr6'  was  taken,  and  which  stood  in  the  neighbor- 
hood. Some  mention  was  made  also  of  the  woman  in 
white,  that  haunted  the  dark  glen  at  Raven  Rock, 
and  was  often  heard  to  shriek  on  winter  nights  before 
a  storm,  having  perished  there  in  the  snow.  The 
chief  part  of  the  stories,  however,  turned  upon  the 
favorite  spectre  of  Sleepy  Hollow,  the  headless  horse- 
man, who  had  been  heard  several  times  of  late,  patrd;* 

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512  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

ling  the  country;  and,  it  was  said,  tethered  his  horse 
nightly  among  the  graves  in  the  churchyard. 

The  sequestered  situation  of  this  church  seems 
always  to  have  made  it  a  favorite  haunt  of  troubled 
spirits.  It  stands  on  a  knoll,  surrounded  by  locust- 
trees  and  lofty  elms,  from  among  which  its  decent 
whitewashed  walls  shine  modestly  forth,  like  Christian 
purity  beaming  through  the  shades  of  retirement.  A 
gentle  slope  descends  from  it  to  a  silver  sheet  of  water, 
bordered  by  high  trees,  between  which,  peeps  may  be 
caught  at  the  blue  hills  of  the  Hudson.  To  look  upon 
its  grass-grown  yard,  where  the  sunbeams  seem  to 
sleep  so  quietly,  one  would  think  that  there  at  least 
the  dead  might  rest  in  peace.  On  one  side  of  the 
church  extends  a  wide  woody  dell,  along  which  raves  a 
large  brook  among  broken  rocks  and  trunks  of  fallen 
trees.  Over  a  deep  black  part  of  the  stream,  not  far 
from  the  church,  was  formerly  thrown  a  wooden 
bridge;  the  road  that  led  to  it,  and  the  bridge  itself, 
were  thickly  shaded  by  overhanging  trees,  which  cast 
a  gloom  about  it,  even  in  the  daytime;  but  occasioned 
a  fearful  darkness  at  night.  This  was  one  of  the 
favorite  haunts  of  the  headless  horseman;  and  the 
place  where  he  was  most  frequently  encountered. 
The  tale  was  told  of  old  Brouwer,  a  most  heretical  dis- 
believer in  ghosts,  how  he  met  the  horseman  returning 
from  his  foray  into  Sleepy  Hollow,  and  was  obliged  to 
get  up  behind  him;  how  they  galloped  over  bush  and 
brake,  over  hill  and  swamp,  until  they  reached  the 
bridge;  when  the  horseman  suddenly  turned  into  a 

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THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW    513 

skeleton,  threw  old  Brouwer  into  the  brook,  and 
sprang  away  over  the  tree-tops  with  a  clap  of  thunder. 

This  story  was  immediately  matched  by  a  thrice 
marvellous  adventure  of  Brom  Bones,  who  made  light 
of  the  galloping  Hessian  as  an  arrant  jockey.  He 
affirmed  that,  on  returning  one  night  from  the  neigh- 
boring village  of  Sing  Sing,  he  had  been  overtaken  by 
this  midnight  trooper;  that  he  had  offered  to  race  with 
him  for  a  bowl  of  punch,  and  should  have  won  it  too, 
for  Daredevil  beat  the  goblin  horse  all  hollow,  but, 
just  as  they  came  to  the  church  bridge,  the  Hessian 
bolted,  and  vanished  in  a  flash  of  fire. 

All  these  tales,  told  in  that  drowsy  undertone  with 
which  men  talk  in  the  dark,  the  countenances  of  the 
listeners  only  now  and  then  receiving  a  casual  gleam 
from  the  glare  of  a  pipe,  sank  deep  in  the  mind  of  Icha- 
bod.  He  repaid  them  in  kind  with  large  extracts 
from  his  invaluable  author.  Cotton  Mather,  and  added 
many  marvellous  events  that  had  taken  place  in  his 
native  State  of  Connecticut,  and  fearful  sights  which 
he  had  seen  in  his  nightly  walks  about  Sleepy  Hollow. ' 

The  revel  now  gradually  broke  up.  The  old  farmers 
gathered  together  their  families  in  their  wagons,  and 
were  heard  for  some  time  rattling  along  the  hollow 
roads,  and  over  the  distant  hills.  Some  of  the  damsels 
mounted  on  pillions  behind  their  favorite  swains,  and 
their  light-hearted  laughter,  mingled  with  the  clatter 
of  hoofs,  echoed  along  the  silent  woodlands,  sounding 
fainter  and  fainter  until  they  gradually  died  away — 
and  the  late  scene  of  noise  and  frolic  was  all  silent  and 
33 

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514  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

deseited.  Ichabod  only  lingered  behind  according  tw 
the  ctistom  of  country  lovers,  to  have  a  t^te-^-t^te 
with  the  heiress,  ftilly  convinced  that  he  was  now  on 
the  high  road  to  success.  What  passed  at  this  inter- 
view I  will  not  pretend  to  say,  for  in  fact  I  do  not 
know.  Something,  however,  I  fear  me,  must  have 
gone  wrong,  for  he  certainly  sallied  forth,  after  no  very 
great  interval,  with  an  air  quite  desolate  and  chop- 
fallen. — Oh  these  women!  these  women!  Could  that 
girl  have  been  playing  off  any  of  her  coquettish  tricks? 
— ^Was  her  encouragement  of  the  poor  pedagogue  all  a 
mere  sham  to  secure  her  conquest  of  his  rival  ?-^ 
Heaven  only  knows,  not  I! — Let  it  sufl&ce  to  say, 
Ichabod  stole  forth  with  the  air  of  one  who  had  been 
sacking  a  hen-roost,  rather  than  a  fair  lady's  heart. 
Without  looking  to  the  right  or  left  to  notice  the  scene 
of  rural  wealth,  on  which  he  had  so  often  gloated,  he 
went  straight  to  the  stable,  and  with  several  hearty 
cuffs  and  kicks  roused  his  steed  most  uncourteously 
from  the  comfortable  quarters  in  which  he  was 
soundly  sleeping,  dreaming  of  mountains  of  com  and 
oats,  and  whole  valleys  of  timothy  and  clover. 

It  was  the  very  witching  time  of  night  ^  that  Icha- 
bod, heavy-hearted  and  crest-fallen,  pursued  his  travel 
homewards,  along  the  sides  of  the  lofty  hills  which  rise 
above  Tarry  Town,  and  which  he  had  traversed  so 
cheerily  in  the  afternoon.  The  hour  was  as  dismal  as 
himself.  Far  below  him,  the  Tappan  Zee  spread  its 
dusky  and  indistinct  waste  of  waters,  with  here  and 
there  the  tall  mast  of  a  sloop,  riding  quietly  at  anchor 

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THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW    515 

under  the  land.  In  the  dead  hush  of  midnight,  he 
could  even  hear  the  barking  of  the  watch  dog  from  the 
opposite  shore  of  the  Hudson;  but  it  was  so  vague  and 
faint  as  only  to  give  an  idea  of  his  distance  from  this 
faithful  companion  of  man.  Now  and  then,  too,  the 
long-drawn  crowing  of  a  cock,  accidentally  awakened, 
would  sound  far,  far  off,  from  some  farmhouse  away 
among  the  hills — but  it  was  like  a  dreaming  sound  in 
his  ear.  No  signs  of  life  occurred  near  him,  but  occa- 
sionally the  melancholy  chirp  of  a  cricket,  or  perhaps 
the  guttural  twang  of  a  bull-frog,  from  a  neighboring 
marsh,  as  if  sleeping  uncomfortably,  and  turning  sud- 
denly in  his  bed. 

All  the  stories  of  ghosts  and  goblins  that  he  had 
heard  in  the  afternoon,  now  came  crowding  upon  his 
recollection.  The  night  grew  darker  and  darker;  the 
stars  seemed  to  sink  deeper  in  the  sky,  and  driving 
clouds  occasionally  hid  them  from  his  sight.  He  had 
never  felt  so  lonely  and  dismal.  He  was,  moreover, 
approaching  the  very  place  where  many  of  the  scenes 
of  the  ghost  stories  had  been  laid.  In  the  centre  of  the 
road  stood  an  enormous  tulip-tree,  which  towered  Uke 
a  giant  above  all  the  other  trees  of  the  neighborhood, 
and  formed  a  kind  of  landmark.  Its  limbs  were 
gnarled,  and  fantastic,  large  enough  to  form  trunks 
for  ordinary  trees,  twisting  down  almost  to  the  earth, 
and  rising  again  into  the  air.  It  was  connected  with 
the  tragical  story  of  the  unfortunate  Andr^,  who  had 
been  taken  prisoner  hard  by;  and  was  universally 
known  by  the  name  of  Major  Andre's  tree.    The 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


5i6  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

common  people  regarded  it  with  a  mixture  of  respect 
and  superstition,  partly  out  of  sympathy  for  the  fate 
of  its  ill-starred  namesake,  and  partly  from  the  tales  of 
strange  sights  and  doleful  lamentations  told  concern- 
ing it. 

As  Ichabod  approached  this  fearful  tree,  he  began  to 
whistle:  he  thought  his  whistle  was  answered — ^it  was 
but  a  blast  sweeping  sharply  through  the  dry  branches. 
As  he  approached  a  little  nearer,  he  thought  he  saw 
something  white,  hanging  in  the  midst  of  the  tree — ^he 
paused  and  ceased  whistling;  but  on  looking  more  nar- 
rowly, perceived  that  it  was  a  place  where  the  tree  had 
been  scathed  by  Ughtning,  and  the  white  wood  laid 
bare.  Suddenly  he  heard  a  groan — ^his  teeth  chat- 
tered and  his  knees  smote  against  the  saddle:  it  was 
but  the  rubbing  of  one  huge  bough  upon  another,  as 
they  were  swayed  about  by  the  breeze.  He  passed  the 
tree  in  safety,  but  new  perils  lay  before  him. 

About  two  hundred  yards  from  the  tree  a  small 
brook  crossed  the  road,  and  ran  into  a  marshy  and 
thickly-wooded  glen,  known  by  the  name  of  Wiley's 
swamp.  A  few  rough  logs,  laid  side  by  side,  served 
for  a  bridge  over  this  stream.  On  that  side  of  the  road 
where  the  brook  entered  the  wood,  a  group  of  oaks  and 
chestnuts,  matted  thick  with  wild  grapevines,  threw  a 
cavernous  gloom  over  it.  To  pass  this  bridge  was  the 
severest  trial.  It  was  at  this  identical  spot  that  the 
unfortunate  Andr^  was  captured,  and  under  the  covert 
of  those  chestnuts  and  vines  were  the  sturdy  yeomen 
concealed  who  surprised  him.    This  has  ever  since 

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THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW    517 

been  considered  a  hatinted  stream,  and  fearful  are  the 
feelings  of  the  schoolboy  who  has  to  pass  it  alone  after 
dark. 

As  he  approached  the  stream  his  heart  began  to 
thump;  he  simimoned  up,  however,  all  his  resolution, 
gave  his  horse  half  a  score  of  kicks  in  the  ribs,  and 
attempted  to  dash  briskly  across  the  bridge;  but 
instead  of  starting  forward,  the  perverse  old  animal 
made  a  lateral  movement,  and  ran  broadside  against 
the  fence.  Ichabod,  whose  fears  increased  with  the 
delay,  jerked  the  reins  on  the  other  side,  and  kicked 
lustily  with  the  contrary  foot:  it  was  all  in  vain;  his 
steed  started,  it  is  true,  but  it  was  only  to  plunge  to  the 
opposite  side  of  the  road  into  a  thicket  of  brambles  and 
alder  bushes.  The  schoolmaster  now  bestowed  both 
whip  and  heel  upon  the'  starveling  ribs  of  old  Gun- 
powder, who  dashed  forward,  snuffling  and  snorting, 
but  came  to  a  stand  just  by  the  bridge,  with  a  sudden- 
ness that  had  nearly  sent  his  rider  sprawling  over  his 
head.  Just  at  this  moment  a  plashy  tramp  by  the 
side  of  the  bridge  caught  the  sensitive  ear  of  Ichabod. 
In  the  dark  shadow  of  the  grove,  on  the  margin  of  the 
brook,  he  beheld  something  huge,  misshapen,  black, 
and  towering.  It  stirred  not,  but  seemed  gathered  up 
in  the  gloom,  like  some  gigantic  monster  ready  to 
spring  upon  the  traveller. 

The  hair  of  the  affrighted  pedagogue  rose  upon  his 
head  with  terror.  What  was  to  be  done?  To  turn 
and  fly  was  now  too  late;  and  besides,  what  chance 
was  there  of  escaping  ghost  or  goblin,  if  such  it  was, 

Digitized  by  VjOOQ  IC 


5i8  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

which  could  ride  upon  the  wings  of  the  wind?  Sum 
moning  up,  therefore,  a  show  of  courage,  he  demanded 
in  stammering  accents — *  *  Who  are  you  ?  "  He  received 
no  reply.  He  repeated  his  demand  in  a  still  more 
agitated  voice.  Still  there  was  no  answer.  Once 
more  he  cudgelled  the  sides  of  the  inflexible  Gun- 
powder, and,  shutting  his  eyes,  broke  forth  with 
involimtary  fervor  into  a  psalm  time.  Just  then  the 
shadowy  object  of  alarm  put  itself  in  motion,  and, 
with  a  scramble  and  a  botmd,  stood  at  once  in  the 
middle  of  the  road.  Though  the  night  was  dark  and 
dismal,  yet  the  form  of  the  unknown  might  now  in 
some  degree  be  ascertained.  He  appeared  to  be  a 
horseman  of  large  dimensions,  and  mounted  on  a  black 
horse  of  powerful  frame.  He  made  no  offer  of  moles- 
tation or  sociability,  but  kept  aloof  on  one  side  of  the 
road,  jogging  along  on  the  blind  side  of  old  Gunpowder, 
who  had  now  got  over  his  fright  and  waywardness. 
Ichabod,  who  had  no  relish  for  this  strange  mid- 
night companion,  and  bethought  himself  of  the  adven- 
ture of  Brom  Bones  with  the  Galloping  Hessian,  now 
quickened  his  steed,  in  hopes  of  leaving  him  behind. 
The  stranger,  however,  quickened  his  horse  to  an 
equal  pace.  Ichabod  pulled  up,  and  fell  into  a  walk, 
thinking  to  lag  behind — the  other  did  the  same.  His 
heart  began  to  sink  within  him;  he  endeavored  to 
restmie  his  psalm  tune,  but  his  parched  tongue  clove  to 
the  roof  of  his  mouth,  and  he  could  not  utter  a  stave. 
There  was  something  in  the  moody  and  dogged 
silence   of   this   pertinacious   companion,    that   was 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW    519 

mysterious  and  appalling.  It  was  soon  fearfully 
accounted  for.  On  mounting  a  rising  ground,  which 
brought  the  figure  of  his  fellow-traveller  in  relief 
against  the  sky,  gigantic  in  height,  and  muffled  in  a 
cloak,  Ichabod  was  horror-struck,  on  perceiving  that 
he  was  headless! — but  his  horror  was  still  more 
increased,  on  observing  that  the  head,  which  should 
have  rested  on  his  shoulders,  was  carried  before  him  on 
the  pommel  of  the  saddle:  his  terror  rose  to  despera- 
tion; he  rained  a  shower  of  kicks  and  blows  upon  Gun- 
powder, hoping,  by  a  sudden  movement,  to  give  his 
companion  the  slip — ^but  the  spectre  started  full  jump 
with  him.  Away  then  they  dashed,  through  thick 
and  thin;  stones  flying,  and  sparks  flashing  at  every 
bound.  Ichabod's  flimsy  garments  fluttered  in  the 
air,  as  he  stretched  his  long  lank  body  away  over  his 
horse's  head,  in  the  eagerness  of  his  flight. 

They  had  now  reached  the  road  which  turns  off  to 
Sleepy  Hollow;  but  Gunpowder,  who  seemed  possessed 
with  a  demon,  instead  of  keeping  up  it,  made  an 
opposite  turn,  and  plunged  headlong  down-hill  to  the 
left.  This  road  leads  through  a  sandy  hollow,  shaded 
by  trees  for  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  where  it  crosses 
the  bridge  famous  in  goblin  story,  and  just  beyond 
swells  the  green  knoll  on  which  stands  the  white- 
washed church. 

As  yet  the  panic  of  the  steed  had  given  his  unskilful 
rider  an  apparent  advantage  in  the  chase;  but  just  as 
he  had  got  half-way  through  the  hollow,  the  girths  of 
the  saddle  gave  way,  and  he  felt  it  slipping  from  under 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


520  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

him.  He  seized  it  by  the  pommel,  and  endeavored  to 
hold  it  firm,  but  in  vain;  and  had  just  time  to  save 
himself  by  clasping  old  Gtmpowder  rotmd  the  neck, 
when  the  saddle  fell  to  the  earth,  and  he  heard  it 
trampled  tmderfoot  by  his  pursuer.  For  a  moment 
the  terror  of  Hans  Van  Ripper's  wrath  passed  across 
his  mind — ^for  it  was  his  Sunday  saddle;  but  this  was 
no  time  for  petty  fears;  the'  goblin  was  hard  on  his 
haunches;  and  (unskilful  rider  that  he  was!)  he  had 
much  ado  to  maintain  his  seat;  sometimes  slipping  on 
one  side,  sometimes  on  another,  and  sometimes  jolted 
on  the  high  ridge  of  his  horse's  backbone,  with  a 
violence  that  he  verily  feared  would  cleave  him 
astmder. 

An  opening  in  the  trees  now  cheered  him  with  the 
hopes  that  the  church  bridge  was  at  hand.  The  wa- 
vering reflection  of  a  silver  star  in  the  bosom  of  the 
brook  told  him  that  he  was  not  mistaken.  He  saw  the 
walls  of  the  church  dimly  glaring  under  the  trees 
beyond.  He  recollected  the  place  where  Brom  Bones's 
ghostly  competitor  had  disappeared.  "If  I  can  but 
j reach  that  bridge,"  thought  Ichabod,  **I  am  safe." 
'  Just  then  he  heard  the  black  steed  panting  and  blowing 
close  behind  him;  he  even  fancied  that  he  felt  his  hot 
breath.  Another  convulsive  kick  in  the  ribs,  and  old 
Gunpowder  sprang  upon  the  bridge;  he  thundered 
over  the  resounding  planks;  he  gained  the  opposite 
side;  and  now  Ichabod  cast  a  look  behind  to  see  if  his 
pursuer  should  vanish,  according  to  rule,  in  a  flash  of 
fire  and  brimstone.      Just  then  he  saw  the  goblin 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW    521 

rising  in  his  stirrups,  and  in  the  very  act  of  hurling  his 
head  at  him.  Ichabod  endeavored  to  dodge  the 
horrible  missile,  but  too  late.  It  encotmtered  his 
cranium  with  a  tremendous  crash — ^he  was  tumbled 
headlong  into  the  dust,  and  Gunpowder,  the  black 
steed,  and  the  goblin  rider  passed  by  like  a  whirl- 
wind. 

The  next  morning  the  old  horse  was  found  without 
his  saddle,  and  with  the  bridle  under  his  feet,  soberly 
cropping  the  grass  at  his  master's  gate.  Ichabod  did 
not  make  his  appearance  at  breakfast — dinner-hour 
came,  but  no  Ichabod.  The  boys  assembled  at  the 
schoolhouse,  and  strolled  idly  about  the  banks  of  the 
brook;  but  no  schoolmaster.  Hans  Van  Ripper  now 
began  to  feel  some  uneasiness  about  the  fate  of  poor 
Ichabod,  and  his  saddle.  An  inquiry  was  set  on  foot, 
and  after  diligent  investigation  they  came  upon  his 
traces.  In  one  part  of  the  road  leading  to  the  church 
was  found  the  saddle  trampled  in  the  dirt;  the  tracks 
of  horses'  hoofs  deeply  dented  in  the  road,  and  evi- 
dently at  furious  speed,  were  traced  to  the  bridge, 
beyond  which,  on  the  bank  of  a  broad  part  of  the 
brook,  where  the  water  ran  deep  and  black,  was 
found  the  hat  of  the  tmfortunate  Ichabod,  and  close 
beside  it  a  shattered  pumpkin. 

The  brook  was  searched,  but  the  body  of  the  school- 
master was  not  to  be  discovered.  Hans  Van  Ripper, 
as  executor  of  his  estate,  examined  the  bundle  which 
contained  all  his  worldly  effects.  They  consisted  of 
two  shirts  and  a  half;  two  stocks  for  the  neck;  a  pair  or 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


522  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

two  of  worsted  stockings;  an  old  pair  of  corduroy 
small-clothes;  a  rusty  razor;  a  book  of  psalm  tunes, 
full  of  dogs'  ears;  and  a  broken  pitchpipe.  As  to  the 
books  and  fumitiu'e  of  the  schoolhouse,  they  belonged 
to  the  commimity,  excepting  Cotton  Mather's  History 
of  Witchcraft,  a  New  England  Almanac,  and  a  book  of 
dreams  and  fortune-telling;  in  which  last  was  a  sheet 
of  foolscap  much  scribbled  and  blotted  in  several 
fruitless  attempts  to  make  a  copy  of  verses  in  honor  of 
the  heiress  of  Van  Tassel.  These  magic  books  and  the 
poetic  scrawl  were  forthwith  consigned  to  the  flames  by 
Hans  Van  Ripper;  who  from  that  time  forward  deter- 
mined to  send  his  children  no  more  to  school ;  observing 
that  he  never  knew  any  good  come  of  this  same  read- 
ing and  writing.  Whatever  money  the  schoolmaster 
possessed,  and  he  had  received  his  quarter's  pay  but  a 
day  or  two  before,  he  must  have  had  about  his  person 
at  the  time  of  his  disappearance. 

The  mysterious  event  caused  much  speculation  at 
the  church  on  the  following  Sunday.  Knots  of  gazers 
and  gossips  were  collected  in  the  chiu-chyard,  at  the 
bridge,  and  at  the  spot  where  the  hat  and  pumpkin  had 
been  found.  The  stories  of  Brouwer,  of  Bones,  and  a 
whole  budget  of  others,  were  called  to  mind ;  and  when 
they  had  diligently  considered  them  all,  and  compared 
them  with  the  symptoms  of  the  present  case,  they 
shook  their  heads,  and  came  to  the  conclusion  that 
Ichabod  had  been  carried  off  by  the  galloping  Hessian. 
As  he  was  a  bachelor,  and  in  nobody's  debt,  nobody 
troubled  his  head  any  more  about  him.     The  school 

Digitized  by  CjOOQ  IC 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW    523 

was  removed  to  a  different  quarter  of  the  hollow,  and 
another  pedagogue  reigned  in  his  stead. 

It  is  true,  an  old  farmer,  who  had  been  down  to  New 
York  on  a  visit  several  years  after,  and  from  whom 
this  account  of  the  ghostly  adventure  was  received, 
brought  home  the  intelligence  that  Ichabod  Crane  was 
still  alive;  that  he  had  left  the  neighborhood,  partly 
through  fear  of  the  goblin  and  Hans  Van  Ripper,  and 
partly  in  mortification  at  having  been  suddenly  dis- 
missed by  the  heiress;  that  he  had  changed  his  quar- 
ters to  a  distant  part  of  the  country;  had  kept  school 
and  studied  law  at  the  same  time,  had  been  admitted 
to  the  bar,  turned  politician,  electioneered,  written  for 
the  newspapers  and  finally  had  been  made  a  justice  of 
the  Ten  Pound  Court.  ^  Brom  Bones  too,  who  shortly 
after  his  rival's  disappearance  conducted  the  blooming 
Katrina  in  triumph  to  the  altar,  was  observed  to  look 
exceedingly  knowing  whenever  the  story  of  Ichabod 
was  related,  and  always  burst  into  a  hearty  laugh  at 
the  mention  of  the  pumpkin;  which  led  some  to  sus- 
pect that  he  knew  more  about  the  matter  than  he 
chose  to  tell. 

The  old  country  wives,  however,  who  are  the  best 
judges  of  these  matters,  maintain  to  this  day  that  Icha- 
bod was  spirited  away  by  supernatural  means;  and  it 
is  a  favorite  story  often  told  about  the  neighborhood 
round  the  winter  evening  fire.  The  bridge  became 
more  than  ever  an  object  of  superstitious  awe,  and 
that  may  be  the  reason  why  the  road  has  been  altered 
of  late  years,  so  as  to  approach  the  church  by  the 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


524  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

border  of  the  mill-pond.  The  schoolhouse,  being 
deserted,  soon  fell  to  decay,  and  was  reported  to  be 
haunted  by  the  ghost  of  the  unfortunate  pedagogue; 
and  the  ploughboy,  loitering  homeward  of  a  still  sum- 
mer evening,  has  often  fancied  his  voice  at  a  distance, 
chanting  a  melancholy  psalm  tune  among  the  tranquil 
solitudes  of  Sleepy  Hollow. 


yGoogk 


POSTSCRIPT 

FOUND  IN  THE  HANDWRITING  OF  MR.  KNICKERBOCKER 

The  preceding  Tale  is  given,  almost  in  the  precise  words  in 
which  I  heard  it  related  at  a  Corporation  meeting  of  the  ancient 
city  of  Manhattoes,  at  which  were  present  many  of  its  sagest  and 
most  illustrious  burghers.  The  narrator  was  a  pleasant,  shabby, 
gentlemanly  old  fellow,  in  pepper-and-salt  clothes,  with  a  sadly 
humorous  face;  and  one  whom  I  strongly  suspected  of  being  poor, 
— ^he  made  such  efforts  to  be  entertaining.  When  his  story  was 
concluded,  there  was  much  laughter  and  approbation,  particu- 
larly from  two  or  three  deputy  aldermen,  who  had  been  asleep 
a  greater  part  of  the  time.  There  was,  however,  one  tall,  dry- 
looking  old  gentleman,  with  beetling  eyebrows,  who  maintained 
a  grave  and  rather  severe  face  throughout:  now  and  then  folding 
his  arms,  inclining  his  head,  and  looking  down  upon  the  floor, 
as  if  turning  a  doubt  over  in  his  mind.  He  was  one  of  your  wary 
men,  who  never  laugh,  but  upon  good  grotmds — when  they  have 
reason  and  the  law  on  their  side.  When  the  mirth  of  the  rest  of 
the  company  had  subsided,  and  silence  was  restored,  he  leaned 
one  arm  on  the  elbow  of  his  chair,  and  sticking  the  other  akimbo, 
demanded,  with  a  slight  but  exceedingly  sage  motion  of  the  head, 
and  contraction  of  the  brow,  what  was  the  moral  of  the  story, 
and  what  it  went  to  prove? 

The  story-teller,  who  was  just  putting  a  glass  of  wine  to  his  lips, 
as  a  refreshment  after  his  toils,  paused  for  a  moment,  looked  at 
his  inquirer  with  an  air  of  infinite  deference,  and,  lowering  the 
glass  slowly  to  the  table,  observed,  that  the  story  was  intended 
most  logically  to  prove: — 

"That  there  is  no  situation  in  life  but  has  its  advantages 
and  pleasures — provided  we  will  but  take  a  joke  as  we  find 
it: 

525 


yGoogk 


526  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

"That,  therefore,  he  that  runs  races  with  goblin  troopers  is 
likely  to  have  rough  riding  of  it. 

"Ergo,  for  a  country  schoolmaster  to  be  refused  the  hand  of  a 
Dutch  heiress,  is  a  certain  step  to  high  preferment  in  the  state. " 

The  cautious  old  gentleman  knit  his  brows  tenfold  closer  after 
this  explanation,  being  sorely  puzzled  by  the  ratiocination  of  the 
syllogism;  while,  methought,  the  one  in  pepper-and-salt  eyed  him 
with  something  of  a  triumphant  leer.  At  length,  he  observed, 
that  all  this  was  very  well,  but  still  he  thought  the  story  a  little 
•n  the  extravagant — there  were  one  or  two  points  on  which  he  had 
his  doubts. 

"Faith,  sir,"  replied  the  story-teller,  "as  to  that  matter,  I 
don't  believe  one-half  of  it  myself. " 

D.K. 


yGoogk 


L'ENVOY*' 

Go,  little  booke,  God  send  thee  good  passage, 
And  specially  let  this  be  thy  prayere, 
Unto  them  all  that  thee  will  read  or  hear, 
Where  thou  art  wrong,  after  their  help  to  call. 
Thee  to  correct  in  any  part  or  all. 

Chaucer  s  Belle  Dame  sans  Mercie.* 

In  concluding  a  second  volume  of  the  Sketch  Book, 
the  Author  cannot  but  express  his  deep  sense  of  the 
indulgence  with  which  his  first  has  been  received,  and 
of  the  liberal  disposition  that  has  been  evinced  to  treat 
him  with  kindness  as  a  stranger.  Even  the  critics, 
whatever  may  be  said  of  them  by  others,  he  has  found 
to  be  a  singularly  gentle  and  good-natured  race;  it  is 
true  that  each  has  in  turn  objected  to  some  one  or  two 
articles,  and  that  these  individual  exceptions,  taken  in 
the  aggregate,  would  amount  almost  to  a  total  con- 
demnation of  his  work;  but  then  he  has  been  consoled 
by  observing,  that  what  one  has  particularly  censured, 
another  has  as  particularly  praised;  and  thus,  the 
encomiums  being  set  oflE  against  the  objections,  he  finds 
his  work,  upon  the  whole,  conmiended  far  beyond  its 
deserts. 

He  is  aware  that  he  runs  a  risk  of  forfeiting  much  of 
this  kind  favor  by  not  following  the  counsel  that  has 

•  Qosing  the  second  volume  of  the  London  edition. 
527 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


528  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

been  liberally  bestowed  upon  him;  ior  where  abun- 
dance of  valuable  advice  is  given  gratis,  it  may  seem  a 
man's  own  fault  if  he  should  go  astray.  He  can  only 
say,  in  his  vindication,  that  he  faithfully  determined, 
for  a  time,  to  govern  himself  in  his  second  volume  by 
the  opinions  passed  upon  his  first;  but  he  was  soon 
brought  to  a  stand  by  the  contrariety  of  excellent 
counsel.  One  kindly  advised  him  to  avoid  the  ludi- 
crous; another  to  shun  the  pathetic;  a  third  assured 
him  that  he  was  tolerable  at  description,  but  cau- 
tioned him  to  leave  narrative  alone;  while  a  fourth 
declared  that  he  had  a  very  pretty  knack  at  turning  a 
story,  and  was  really  entertaining  when  in  a  pensive 
mood,  but  was  grievously  mistaken  if  he  imagined 
himself  to  possess  a  spirit  of  humor. 

Thus  perplexed  by  the  advice  of  his  friends,  who 
each  in  tiun  closed  some  particular  path,  but  left  him 
all  the  world  beside  to  range  in,  he  found  that  to  fol- 
low all  their  counsels  would,  in  fact,  be  to  stand  still. 
He  remained  for  a  time  sadly  embarrassed;  when,  all 
at  once,  the  thought  struck  him  to  ramble  on  as  he  had 
begun;  that  his  work  being  miscellaneous,  and  written 
for  different  humors,  it  could  not  be  expected  that  any 
one  would  be  pleased  with  the  whole;  but  that  if  it 
should  contain  something  to  suit  each  reader,  his  end 
would  be  completely  answered.  Few  guests  sit  down 
to  a  varied  table  with  an  equal  appetite  for  every  dish. 
One  has  an  elegant  horror  of  a  roasted  pig;  another 
holds  a  curry  or  a  devil  in  utter  abomination;  a  third 
cannot  tolerate  the  ancient  flavor  of  venison  and  wild- 
Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


VENVOY  529 

fowl;  and  a  fourth,  of  trtdy  masculine  stomach,  looks 
with  sovereign  contempt  on  those  knick-knacks,  here 
and  there  dished  up  for  the  ladies.  Thus  each  article 
is  condemned  in  its  turn;  and  yet,  amidst  thi^  variety 
of  appetites,  seldom  does  a  dish  go  away  ftom  the 
table  without  being  tasted  and  relished  by  some  one  or 
other  of  the  guests. 

With  these  considerations  he  ventures  to  serve  up 
this  second  volume  in  the  same  heterogeneous  way 
with  his  first;  simply  requesting  the  reader,  if  he 
should  find  here  and  there  something  to  please  him,  to 
rest  assured  that  it  was  written  expressly  for  intelli- 
gent readers  like  himself;  but  entreating  him,  should 
he  find  anything  to  dislike,  to  tolerate  it,  as  one  of 
those  articles  which  the  author  has  been  obliged  to 
write  for  readers  of  a  less  refined  taste. 

To  be  serious. — ^The  author  is  conscious  of  the 
numerous  faults  and  imperfections  of  his  work;  and 
well  aware  how  little  he  is  disciplined  and  accom- 
plished in  the  arts  of  authorship.  His  deficiencies  are 
also  increased  by  a  difiidence  arising  from  his  peculiar 
situation.  He  finds  himself  writing  in  a  strange  land, 
and  appearing  before  a  public  which  he  has  been 
accustomed,  from  childhood,  to  regard  with  the  high- 
est feelings  of  awe  and  reverence.  He  is  full  of  solici- 
tude to  deserve  their  approbation,  yet  finds  that  very 
solicitude  continually  embarrassing  his  powers,  and 
depriving  him  of  that  ease  and  confidence  which  are 
necessary  to  successful  exertion.  Still  the  kindness 
with  which  he  is  treated  encourages  him  to  go  on. 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


530  THE  SKETCH  BOOK 

hoping  that  in  time  he  may  acquire  a  steadier  footing; 
and  thus  he  proceeds,  half  venturing,  half  shrinking, 
surprised  at  his  own  good  forttme,  and  wondering  at 
his  own  temerity. 


yGoogk 


APPENDIX 


NOTES   CONCERNING  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 

Toward  the  end  of  the  sixth  century,  when  Britain,  under  the 
dominion  of  the  Saxons,  was  in  a  state  of  barbarism  and  idolatry. 
Pope  Gregory  the  Great,  struck  with  the  beauty  of  some  Anglo- 
Saxon  youths  exposed  for  sale  in  the  market-place  at  Rome, 
conceived  a  fancy  for  the  race,  and  determined  to  send  mission- 
aries to  preach  the  gospel  among  these  comely  but  benighted 
islanders.  He  was  encouraged  to  this  by  learning  that  Ethelbert, 
king  of  Kent,  and  the  most  i>otent  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  princes, 
had  married  Bertha,  a  Christian  princess,  only  daughter  of  the 
king  of  Paris,  and  that  she  was  allowed  by  stipulation  the  full 
exercise  of  her  religion. 

The  Pontiff  forthwith  despatched  Augustine,  a  Roman  monk, 
with  forty  associates,  to  the  court  of  Ethelbert  at  Canterbury, 
to  effect  the  conversion  of  the  king  and  to  obtain  through  him  a 
foothold  in  the  island. 

Ethelbert  being  distrustful  received  them  warily,  and  held  a 
conference  in  the  open  air.  They  ultimately  succeeded  in  mak- 
ing him  as  good  a  Christian  as  his  wife;  the  conversion  of  the 
king  of  course  produced  the  conversion  of  his  loyal  subjects. 
The  zeal  and  success  of  Augustine  were  rewarded  by  his  being 
made  archbishop  of  Canterbury,  and  being  endowed  with  au- 
^ority  over  all  the  British  churches. 

One  of  the  most  prominent  converts  was  Segebert  or  Sebert, 
king  of  the  East  Saxons,  a  nephew  of  Ethelbert.  He  reigned  at 
London,  of  which  Mellitus,  one  of  the  Roman  monks  who  had 
come  over  with  Augustine,  was  made  bishop. 

Sebert,  in  605,  in  his  religious  zeal,  founded  a  monastery  by 
the  river  side  to  the  west  of  the  city,  on  the  ruins  of  a  temple 
of  Apollo,  being,  in  fact,  the  origin  of  the  present  pile  of  West- 
minster Abbey.  Great  preparations  were  made  for  the  consecra- 
tion of  the  church,  which  was  to  be  dedicated  to  St.  Peter.  On 
the  morning  of  the  appointed  day,  Mellitus,  the  bishop,  proceeded 
with  great  pomp  and  solemnity  to  perform  the  ceremony.  On 
approaching  the  edifice  he  was  met  by  a  fisherman,  who  informed 
him  that  it  was  needless  to  proceed,  as  the  ceremony  was  over. 

531 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


532  APPENDIX 

The  bishop  stared  with  surprise,  when  the  fisherman  went  on 
to  relate,  that  the  night  before,  as  he  was  in  his  boat  on  the 
Thames,  St.  Peter  appeared  to  him,  and  told  him  that  he  intended 
to  consecrate  the  church  himself,  that  very  night.  The  apostle 
accordingly  went  into  the  church,  which  suddenly  became 
illuminated.  The  ceremony  was  performed  in  sumptuous  style, 
accompanied  by  strains  of  heavenly  music  and  clouds  of  fragrant 
incense.  After  this,  the  apostle  came  into  the  boat  and  ordered 
the  fisherman  to  cast  his  net.  He  did  so,  and  had  a  miraculous 
draught  of  fishes;  one  of  which  he  was  commanded  to  present  to 
the  bishop,  and  to  signify  to  him  that  the  apostle  had  relieved 
him  from  the  necessity  of  consecrating  the  church. 

Mellitus  was  a  wary  man,  slow  of  belief,  and  required  confirma- 
tion of  the  fisherman's  tale.  He  opened  the  church  doors,  and 
beheld  wax  candles,  crosses,  holy  water;  oil  sprinkled  in  various 
places,  and  various  other  traces  of  a  grand  ceremonial.  If  he 
had  still  any  Ungering  doubts,  they  were  completely  removed 
on  the  fisherman's  producing  the  identical  fish  which  he  had  been 
ordered  by  the  apostle  to  present  to  him.  To  resist  this  would 
have  been  to  resist  ocular  demonstration.  The  good  bishop 
accordingly  was  convinced  that  the  church  had  actually  been 
consecrated  by  St.  Peter  in  person;  so  he  reverently  abstained 
from  proceeding  further  in  the  business. 

The  foregoing  tradition  is  said  to  be  the  reason  why  King 
Edward  the  Confessor  chose  this  place  as  the  site  of  a  reUgious 
house  which  he  meant  to  endow.  He  pulled  down  the  old  church 
and  built  another  in  its  place  in  1045.  In  this  his  remains  were 
deposited  in  a  magnificent  shrine. 

The  sacred  edifice  again  underwent  modifications,  if  not  a 
reconstruction,  by  Henry  III.,  in  1220,  and  began  to  assume 
its  present  appearance. 

Under  Henry  VIII.  it  lost  its  conventual  character,  that 
monarch  timiing  the  monks  away,  and  seizing  upon  the  revenues. 

RELICS    OF    EDWARD  THE  CONFESSOR 

A  curious  narrative  was  printed  in  1688,  by  one  of  the  choris- 
ters of  the  cathedral,  who  appears  to  have  been  the  Paul  Pry 
of  the  sacred  edifice,  giving  an  accoimt  of  his  rummaging  among 
the  bones  of  Edward  the  Confessor,  after  they  had  quietly 
reposed  in  their  sepulchre  upwards  of  six  hundred  years,  and 
of  his  drawing  forth  the  crucifix  and  golden  chain  of  the  deceased 
monarch.  During  eighteen  years  that  he  had  officiated  in  the 
choir,  it  had  been  a  common  tradition,  he  says,  among  his  brother 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


APPENDIX  533 

choristers  and  the  gray-headed  servants  of  the  abbey,  that  the 
body  of  King  Edward  was  deposited  in  a  kind  of  chest  or  cofifin, 
'which  was  indistinctly  seen  in  the  upper  part  of  the  shrine  erected 
to  his  memory.  None  of  the  abbey  gossips,  however,  had  ven- 
tured upon  a  nearer  inspection,  until  the  worthy  narrator,  to 
gratify  his  curiosity,  mounted  to  the  coffin  by  the  aid  of  a  ladder, 
and  found  it  to  be  made  of  wood,  apparently  very  strong  and  firm, 
being  secured  by  bands  of  iron. 

Subsequently,  in  1685,  on  taking  down  the  scaffolding  used  in 
the  coronation  of  James  II.,  the  coffin  was  found  to  be  broken, 
a  hole  appearing  in  the  Hd,  probably  made,  through  accident, 
by  the  workmen.  No  one  ventured,  however,  to  meddle  with 
the  sacred  depository  of  royal  dust,  until,  several  weeks  after- 
wards, the  circumstance  came  to  the  knowledge  of  the  aforesaid 
chorister.  He  forthwith  repaired  to  the  abbey  in  company  with 
two  friends,  of  congenial  tastes,  who  were  desirous  of  inspecting 
the  tombs.  Procuring  a  ladder,  he  again  mounted  to  the  coffin, 
and^  fotmd,  as  had  been  represented,  a  hole  in  the  lid  about 
six  inches  long  and  four  inches  broad,  just  in  front  of  the  left 
breast.  Thrusting  in  his  hand,  and  groping  among  the  bones, 
he  drew  from  underneath  the  shoulder  a  crucifix,  richly  adorned 
and  enameled,  affixed  to  a  gold  chain  twenty-four  inches  long. 
These  he  showed  to  his  inquisitive  friends,  who  were  equally 
surprised  with  himself. 

"At  the  time,"  says  he,  "when  I  took  the  cross  and  chain 
out  of  the  coffin,  I  drew  the  head  to  the  hole  and  viewed  it,  being 
very  sound  and  firm,  with  the  upper  and  nether  jaws  whole  and 
full  of  teeth,  and  a  list  of  gold  above  an  inch  broad,  in  the  nature 
of  a  coronet,  surroimding  the  temples.  There  was  also  in  the 
coffin,  white  linen  and  gold-colored  flowered  silk,  that  looked 
indifferent  fresh;  but  the  least  stress  put  thereto  showed  it  was 
well  nigh  perished.  There  were  all  his  bones,  and  much  dust 
likewise,  which  I  left  as  I  found. " 

It  is  difficult  to  conceive  a  more  grotesque  lesson  to  human 
pride  than  the  scull  of  Edward  the  Confessor  thus  irreverently 
pulled  about  in  its  coffin  by  a  prying  chorister,  and  brought 
to  grin  face  to  face  with  him  through  a  hole  in  the  lid! 

Having  satisfied  his  curiosity,  the  chorister  put  the  crucifix 
and  chain  back  again  into  the  coffin,  and  sought  the  dean,  to 
apprise  him  of  his  discovery.  The  dean  not  being  accessible 
at  the  time,  and  fearing  that  the  "holy  treasure"  might  be  taken 
away  by  other  hands,  he  got  a  brother  chorister  to  accompany 
him  to  the  shrine  about  two  or  three  hours  afterwards,  and  in 
his  presence  again  drew  forth  the  relics.  These  he  afterwards 
delivered  on  his  knees  to  King  James.    The  king  subsequently  had 

Digitized  by  VjOOQ  IC 


/ 


534  APPENDIX 

the  old  coffin  inclosed  in  a  new  one  of  great  strength:  "each 
plank  being  two  inches  thick  and  cramped  together  with  large 
iron  wedges,  where  it  now  remains  (1688)  as  a  testimony  of  lus 
pious  care,  that  no  abuse  might  be  offered  to  the  sacred  ashes 
therein  deposited. " 

As  the  history  of  this  shrine  is  full  of  moral,  I  subjoin  a  de- 
scription of  it  in  modem  times.  "  The  solitary  and  forlorn  shrine, " 
says  a  British  writer,  "now  stands  a  mere  skeleton  of  what  it  was. 
A  few  faint  traces  of  its  sparkling  decorations  inlaid  on  sohd 
mortar  catch  the  rays  of  the  sim,  forever  set  on  its  splendor.  .  .  . 
Only  two  of  the  spiral  pillars  remain.  The  wooden  Ionic  top 
is  much  broken,  and  covered  with  dust.  The  mosaic  is  picked 
away  in  every  part  within  reach;  only  the  lozenges  of  about  a 
foot  square  and  five  circular  pieces  of  the  rich  marble  remain. " — 
Malcolm,  Land,  rediv. 


INSCRIPTION  ON    A    MONUMENT    ALLUDED    TO    IN    THE    SKETCH 


Here  lyes  the  Loyal  Duke  of  Newcastle,  and  his  Duchess  his 
second  wife,  by  whom  he  had  no  issue.  Her  name  was  Margaret 
Lucas,  yotmgest  sister  to  the  Lord  Lucas  of  Colchester,  a  noble 
family;  for  all  the  brothers  were  valiant,  and  all  the  sisters 
virtuous.  This  Duchess  was  a  wise,  witty,  and  learned  lady, 
which  her  many  Bookes  do  well  testify:  she  was  a  most  virtuous, 
and  loving,  and  careful  wife,  and  was  with  her  lord  all  the  time  of 
his  banishment  and  miseries,  and  when  he  came  home,  never 
parted  from  him  in  his  solitary  retirement. 


In  the  winter  time,  when  the  days  are  short,  the  service  in  the 
afternoon  is  performed  by  the  light  of  tapers.  The  effect  is  fine 
of  the  dioir  partially  lighted  up,  while  the  main  body  of  the 
cathedral  and  the  transepts  are  in  profound  and  cavernous 
darkness.  The  white  dresses  of  the  choristers  gleam  amidst  the 
deep  brown  of  the  open  slats  and  canopies;  the  partial  illumina- 
tion makes  enormous  shadows  from  columns  and  screens,  and 
darting  into  the  surrounding  gloom,  catches  here  and  there 
upon  a  sepulchral  decoration,  or  monumental  eflfigy.  The 
swelling  notes  of  the  organ  accord  well  with  the  scene. 

When  the  service  is  over,  the  dean  is  lighted  to  his  dwelling, 
in  the  old  conventual  part  of  the  pile,  by  the  boys  of  the  choir, 
in  their  white  dresses,  bearing  tapers,  and  the  procession  passes 


yGoogk 


APPENDIX  535 

through  the  abbey  and  along  the  shadowy  cloisters,  lighting  up 
angles  and  arches  and  grim  sepulchral  montunents,  and  leaving 
all  behind  in  darkness. 

On  entering  the  cloisters  at  night  from  what  is  called  the 
Dean's  Yard,  the  eye  ranging  through  a  dark  vaulted  passage 
catches  a  distant  view  of  a  white  marble  figure  reclining  in  a 
tomb,  on  which  a  strong  glare  thrown  by  a  gas  light  has  quite 
a  spectral  effect.    It  is  a  mural  montunent  of  one  of  the  Pultneys. 


yGoogk 


yGoogk 


NOTES 


Int,  refers  to  the  Introduction  of  this  volume.  L,  and  L. 
refers  to  the  Life  and  Letters  of  Washington  Irving^  by  Pierre  M, 
Irving,  published  by  Lippincott's  in  three  volumes,  1869. 

THE  author's  account  OF  HIMSELF 

31,  I.  The  quotation  is  from  John  Lyly*s  romance,  Euphues, 
the  style  of  which  gave  rise  to  the  term  euphuism, 

2.  My  native  city.  In  1790  the  population  of  New  York 
was  about  30,000;  in  1800,  about  60,000.  The  author's  birth- 
place was  in  William  Street,  between  Ftdton  and  John.  The 
city  occupied  a  small  part  of  the  lower  end  of  what  is  now  the 
Borough  of  Manhattan. 

32,  I.  Books  of  voyages.  See  Introduction.  L,  and  £., 
i»  13 »  gives  an  instance  of  tiie  confiscation  of  some  of  these  books 
at  school. 

2.  I  visited  various  parts  of  my  own  country.  See  Intro- 
duction for  Irving's  travels  in  America. 

3.  Her  mighly  lakes.  Irving  never  tired  of  describing  the 
scenery  of  America.  Compare  passages  in  "Rip  Van  Winkle,*' 
etc.     See  InL 

33,  I.  The  masterpieces  of  art.  Discover  in  The  Sketch 
Book  traces  of  Irving's  interest  in  these  things.  See  Int.  for  the 
effect  of  his  first  European  journey. 

2.  We  .  .  .  have  our  great  men  in  America.  In  view  of 
the  later  friendship  of  Irving  and  Dickens,  it  will  be  interesting 
to  read  here  Chapter  xvi  in  Martin  Chuzzlewit^  where  Martin, 
just  landed  in  New  York,  is  introduced  to  "remarkable  men." 
The  irony  of  this  paragraph,  directed  first  at  America  and 
then  at  England,  is  clmracteristic  of  Irving.  Compare  the 
History  of  New  York,  Book  3. 

34,  I.  St.  Peter's,  etc.  These  places  Irving  had  visited  on 
his  first  tour.  Irving's  closest  friends  at  the  time  he  wrote  this 
passage  were  three  artists,  Washington  Allston,  C.  R.  Leslie,  and 
Stuart  Newton.  Read  Byron's  descriptions  of  Cascate  del 
Marmore  (Temi)  in  Childe  Harold,  Canto  4,  and  of  the  Coliseum 

537 


yGoogk 


538  NOTES 

and  St.  Peter's  in  the  same  Canto.  These  were  published  in 
1818.  Bvron  told  a  friend  that  he  almost  knew  The  Sketch 
Book  by  heart.    See  Irving's  later  essay  on  Newstead  Abbey. 

THE  VOYAGE 

In  Irving's  day  the  time  required  for  a  voyage  across  the 
Atlantic  was  five  or  six  weeks.  In  the  following  letter,  written 
to  Alexander  Beebee,  one  of  his  friends,  on  his  first  landing  in 
Bordeaux  in  1804,  the  student  will  find  the  germ  of  much  of 
the  present  essay. 

"  I  felt  heavy-hearted  on  leaving  the  city,  as  you  may  suppose; 
but  the  severest  monients  of  my  departure  were  when  I  lost 
sight  of  the  boat  in  which  were  my  brothers  who  had  accompanied 
me  on  board,  and  when  the  steeples  of  the  cit)^  faded  from  my 
view.  It  seemed  as  if  I  had  left  the  world  behind  me,  and  was 
cast  among  strangers  without  a  friend,  sick  and  solitary.^  I 
looked  around  me,  saw  none  but  strange  faces,  heard  nothing 
but  a  language  I  could  not  understand,  and  felt  'alone  amidst 
a  crowd.*  .  .  .  My  home-sickness  wore  off  by  degrees;  I  again 
looked  forward  with  enthusiasm  to  the  classic  scenes  I  was  to 
enjoy,  the  land  of  romance  and  inspiration  I  was  to  tread. " 

From  a  letter  of  the  same  date  to  WiUiain  Irving:  **I  cannot 
express  the  sensations  I  felt  on  first  catching  a  glimpse  of  Euro- 
pean land.  .  .  .  Everything  is  novel  and  interestmg  to  me — 
the  heavy  Gothic-looking  buildings — the  ancient  churches — 
the  manners  of  the  people — ^it  really  looks  like  another  world. " 
L.  and  L.,  i,  39  ff. 

36,  I.  A  lengthening  chain.  See  The  Traveller,  Goldsmith, 
i,  10. 

39,  I.  Banks  of  Newfoundland.  An  elevated  plateau  of 
the  ocean  bottom  off  the  coast  of  Newfoundland,  famous  as  a 
fishing  ground. 

40,  I.  Deep  called  unto  deep.  A  Bible  phrase;  compare 
Psalms  xlii,  7.  The  entire  paragraph  seems  formed  on  the  pic- 
ture of  this  verse: 

"Deep  calleth  unto  deep  at  the  noise  of  thy  waterfalls; 
All  thy  waves  and  billows  are  gone  over  me. " 

ROSCOE 

^See  /«/.,  p.  13,  for  the  purpose  of  this  essay.   Fifteen  years  later 


yGoogk 


NOTES  539 

we  find  Irving  urging  Mr.  Astor  to  give  during  his  life  the 
money  for  the  Astor  Library.    L.  and  L.,  i,  140. 

Irvmg  spent  the  greater  part  of  the  years  181 5-1 81 7  in 
Liverpool.  William  Roscoe  was  at  that  time  a  man  of  about 
sixty-five.  His  Life  of  Lorenzo  de*  Medici  was  very  popular  and 
was  translated  into  several  languages.  He  afterward  gained 
much  honor  as  a  botanist. 

45y  I.  The  Medici.  From  the  thirteenth  century  this 
famous  family  was  the  most  powerful  in  the  Florentine  state. 
Lorenzo  became  head  of  the  state  in  1469  and  continued  the 
policy  of  the  family  in  devoting  his  wealth  to  the  encouragement 
of  literature.  Later  he  broke  down  the  last  vestiges  of  demo- 
cratic liberty  in  the  city.     See  Romola,  George  Eliot. 

2.  Stony  places  of  the  world,  etc.  Bible  phrase:  Matthew 
xiii,5. 

47,  I.  The  living  streams  of  knowledge.  Biblical  sugges- 
tion: Songs  of  Solomon  (Canticles)  iv,  15  and  Revelations  vii, 
17.  Note  how  often  this  figure  recurs  in  this  essay,  and  else^ 
where  in  The  Sketch  Book, 

2.    Daily  beauty  in  his  life.    Othello,  iii,  3, 1.  156: 

"He  has  a  daily  beauty  in  his  life 
That  makes  me  ugly. " 

489  I.  Frowns  of  adversity.  Compare  in  As  You  Like  It, 
ii,  i: 

"Sweet  are  the  uses  of  adversity,"  etc. 

49,  I.    Like  manna.    Bible  reference,  Exodus  xvi,  15. 

52,  I.  Pompey's  column.  Pompey's  Pillar.  The  name  is  a 
mere  invention.  The  column  was  erected  by  Publius,  Eparch  of 
Egypt,  in  honor  of  Diocletian,  in  302. 

THE  WIFE 

This  sketch  of  pathetic  sentiment,  in  its  forms  of  expression 
and  figures  of  speech,  will  seem  to  many  trite  and  out  of  date. 
Yet  there  is  behind  it  a  genuine  sincerity  that  no  one  can  doubt, 
and  in  the  America  of  Irving's  day  it  called  forth  such  praise 
that  his  brother  insisted  that  he  should  follow  this  vein  of 
pathos  in  the  following  numbers.    His  Christmas  essays,  on 


yGoogk 


540  NOTES 

the  contrary,  seemed  not  to  meet  with  quite  so  much  favor. 
This  circumstance  may  furnish  a  good  illustration  of  the 
"mutability  of  literature." 

58,  I.  I  saw  his  grief  was  eloquent.  For  sorrow  relieves 
itself  by  words.  Note  the  unusual  sense  of  eloquent,  ''having  a 
tendency  to  express  itself.**  Compare  the  following  line  from 
the  Latin  author,  Seneca,  in  Hippolytus,  "  Light  griSs  are  com- 
municative, great  ones  stupefy,** — ^the  first  half  in  Latin  being, 
CurcB  leves  loquuntur. 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE 

Those  who  wish  to  study  the  great  dramatic  interpretation 
of  Rip  Van  Winkle  will  find  much  interesting  material  in  The 
Autobiography  of  Joseph  Jefferson,  and  in  Joseph  Jefferson  by 
William  Winter.  Probably  the  popular  notion  of  Rip  is  drawn 
as  largely  from  the  play  as  from  the  tale.  It  should  be  observed 
that  flie  story  was  seized  upon  for  the  stage  almost  as  soon  as  it 
was  published,  and  several  actors  tried  their  hands  at  it  before 
Jefferson  made  it  his  own.  As  to  the  source  of  the  story,  it  may 
De  noticed  that  the  fancy  of  extraordinarily  long  sleep  as  a  basis 
for  a  tale  is  very  old  and  widely  distributed  in  many  languages 
and  may  be  a  variant  from  the  device  of  a  long  absence  to  allow 
for  great  changes  in  the  wanderer's  familiar  haunts.  Irving's 
own  footnote  about  Der  Rothbart  may  be  due  to  his  having  busied 
himself  with  the  study  of  German  just  before  writing  these 
sketches.  The  Hartz  Mountain  legend  of  Peter  Klaus  fur- 
nishes an  interesting  parallel.  However  this  may  be,  it  is 
clear  that  Irving  had  in  his  Sleepy  Hollow  memories  plenty  of 
material  out  of  which  his  fancy  might  create  Rip  and  all  his 
adventures. 

66,  I.  Introductory  Note.  This  note  contains  a  reference  to 
some.criticism  of  Irving  aroused  by  the  liberties  he  was  thought 
to  have  taken  with  old  family  names  in  his  humorous  History. 

Having  once  created  the  character  of  Diedrich  Knickerbocker, 
Irving  became  fond  of  using  the  old  gentleman  whenever  possible. 
As  prefatory  to  his  series  of  papers  in  The  Knickerbocker  Maga- 
zine in  1839-41,  he  addressed  a  letter  to  the  editor,  in  which  he 
says:  "Diedrich  Knickerbocker,  sir,  was  one  of  my  earliest 
and  most  valued  friends,  and  the  recollection  of  him  is  associated 
with  some  of  the  pleasantest  scenes  of  my  youthful  days.  .  .  . 
My  first  acquaintance  with  that  great  and  good  man  .  .  .  was 
formed*  on  the  banks  of  the  Hudson,  not  far  from  the  wizard 
region  of  Sleepy  Hollow. " 


yGoogk 


NOTES  541 

In  L.  and  L.,  1,  170,  will  be  found  the  account  of  the  advertise- 
ment for  "a  small,  elderly  gentleman,  dress^ed  in  an  old  black 
coat  and  cocked  hat,  by  the  name  of  Kniclcerbocker, "  which 
preceded  the  publication  of  the  History  of  New  York,  The 
advertisement,  of  course,  was  a  hoax,  employed  for  the  purpose 
of  advertising  the  book. 

2.  Description  of  the  Catskills.  The  following  passage  was 
written  in  1851,  a  reminiscence  of  an  early  trip  up  the  Hudson. 

"  But  of  all  the  scenery  of  the  Hudson,  the  Kaatskill  Mountains 
had  the  most  witching  effect  on  my  boyish  imagination.  Never 
shall  I  forget  the  effect  upon  me  of  the  first  view  of  them  pre- 
dominating over  a  wide  extent  of  country,  part  wild,  woody,  and 
rugged;  part  softened  away  into  all  the  graces  of  cultivation. 
As  we  slowly  floated  along,  I  lay  on  the  deck  and  watched  them 
through  a  long  summer's  day,  undergoing  a  thousand  mutations 
under  the  magical  effects  of  atmosphere;  sometimes  seeming  to 
approach,  at  other  times  to  recede;  now  almost  melting  into 
hazy  distance,  now  burnished  by  the  setting  sun,  until,  m  the 
evening,  they  printed  themselves  against  the  glowing  sky  in 
the  deep  purple  of  an  Italian  landscape.**    L.  ami  L.,  i,  19. 

Irving's  first  visit  to  the  Catskills  was  made  in  the  summer  of 
1832,  thirteen  years  after  the  writing  of  **Rip  Van  Winkle. 
He  wrote  to  his  brother,  Peter,  **  We  remained  here  until  the  next 
dsLYt  visiting  the  waterfall,  glen,  etc.,  that  are  pointed  out  as  the 
veritable  haunts  of  Rip  Van  Winkle.  '*    L.  ana  L.,  ii,  25. 

67,  I.  A  village.  Just  before  his  death,  Irving  received  a 
letter  from  a  boy  at  Catskill,  asking  him  to  settle  a  dispute  he 
had  had  "with  a  very  old  gentleman*'  as  to  just  what  village  in 
the  Catskills  was  referred  to  in  the  story.  Mr  Irving  replied  as 
follows: 

Sunnyside,  February  5,  1858. 
Dear  Sir: — 

I  can  give  you  no  other  information  concerning  the  locali- 
ties of  the  story  of  Rip  Van  Winkle,  than  is  to  be  gathered  from 
the  manuscript  of  Mr.  Knickerbocker,  published  in  The  Sketch 
Book,  Perhaps  he  left  them  purposely  in  doubt.  I  would 
advise  you  to  defer  to  the  opinion  of  the  "very  old  gentleman" 
with  whom  you  say  you  had  an  argument  on  the  subject.  I  think 
it  probable  he  is  as  accurately  informed  as  anyone  on  the  matter. 
Respectfully,  your  obedient  servant, 

Washington  Irving. 

2.  Peter  Stu3rvesant  and  Fort  Christina.  The  most  "hor- 
rible battle'*  between  the  Swedes  and  the  Dutch  under  the  leader- 
ship of  Governor  Stujrvesant  is  chronicled  in  Book  6,  Chapter  7» 
of  the  History  of  New  York- 


yGoogk 


542  NOTES 

69,  I.    Foremost  man  at  all  country  frolics  for  husking,  etc 

See  Irving's  account  of  the  **bees,*'  the  ** rustic  gatherings," 
€)f  Sleepy  Hollow,  m  "Sleepy  Hollow,"  Wolfert's  Roost. 

70,  I.  Inherit  the  habits,  with  the  old  clothes  of  his  father. 
See  Book  2,  Chapter  2,  History  of  New  York^  for  a  humorous 
accoimt  of  inheritances  in  the,  Dutch  villages. 

71,  I.  Perpetual  club  of  the  sages.  Sage  is  a  word,  like  junto 
in  the  next  paragraph,  which  Irving  was  fond  of  using  in  a 
humorous,  half -satirical  sense. 

72^  I.  The  smoking  of  Nicholas  Vedder.  Compare  Irving's 
accotmt,  in  Book  3  of  the  History^  of  the  mighty  smoking  of 
Governor  Wouter  Van  Twiller. 

78,1.  Roysters.  One  would  expect  roy^/erer;  but  Irving  uses 
the  old  form.    The  word  is  related  to  rustic^  rude,  noisy  reveller. 

82,  I.  Babylonish  jargon.  Reference  to  Tower  of  Babel  (?). 
The  old  French  word  jargon  means  the  warbling  or  twittering 
of  birds.  See  the  line  in  The  Ancient  Mariner ^  "their  sweet 
jargoning." 

84,  I.  Anthony's  Nose.  A  projecting  bluff  on  the  Hudson 
below  West  Point,  said  to  have  been  named  for  a  trumpeter  of 
Governor  Stuyvesant. 

2 .  Van Bummell.  Compare  the  later  fortunes  of  Ichabod  Crane. 

86,  I.  New-England  peddler.  In  the  History  of  New  York 
Irving  seems  to  adopt  the  peddler  as  the  type  of  New-England 
shrewdness,  and  spends  a  deal  of  humorous  satire  upon  him. 
See  also  in  A  Chronicle  of  WolferVs  Roost,  "these  swapping, 
bargaining,  squatting  enemies  of  the  Manhattoes." 


ENGLISH  WRITERS  ON  AMERICA 

In  this  essay,  as  in  "Roscoe,"  the  reader  will  find  a  serious 
and  kindly  patriotic  purpose  animating  the  writer.  He  does 
not  dwell  so  much  on  the  errors  of  English  writers  as  on  the  atti- 
tude which  his  countrjmien  ought  to  adopt  toward  European 
people  themselves  as  well  as  toward  their  writings  about  America. 

The  reader  should  compare  what  Irving  says  with  what  other 
men  of  authority  have  said  about  what  constitutes  the  true 
strength  of  America.  Can  you  find  that  he  is  impartial  and  at 
the  same  time  really  patriotic?  Can  you  find  that  some  condi- 
tions he  speaks  of  in  America  have  changed,  approaching  in  some 
points  conditions  in  the  Old  World? 

95,  I.  El  Dorado.  "The  Gilded,"  or  the  fabled  land  of 
gold  of  the  Spanish  adventurers  in  America. 

ioO|  I.    Even  during  the  late  war.    War  of  18 12. 


yGoogk 


NOTES  543 

In  the  L.  and  L,  the  following  letter  appears.  It  was  written 
by  Irving's  friend,  Brevoort,  in  England,  in  June,  1813,  and  in- 
troduces Francis  Jeffrey,  editor  of  the  Edinburgh  Review,  and 
one  of  the  best-known  men  of  the  time.    The  letter  says: 

"  It  is  essential  that  Jeffrey  may  imbibe  a  just  estimate  of  the 
United  States  and  its  inhabitants;  he  goes  out  strongly  biased 
in  otir  favor,  and  the  influence  of  his  good  opinion  upon  his  return 
to  this  coimtry,  would  go  far  to  efface  the  calumnies  and  the 
absurdities  that  have  heea  laid  to  our  charge  by  ignorant  travel- 
lers. Persuade  him  to  visit  Washington,  and  by  all  means  to 
see  the  falls  of  Niagara;  the  obstacles  which  the  war  may  opi)ose 
may  be  easily  overcome,  and  at  all  events  he  may  see  them  with- 
out ever  crossing  into  Canada. "        ,        , 

Shortly  afterward  Peter  Irving,  in  Liveipool,  is  interesting 
himself  m  securing  for  Thomas  Campbell,  the  jK)et,  profitable 
terms  from  ijublishers  in  America.  In  such  mcidents  Irving 
found  the  basis  for  his  essay. 


RURAL  LIFE  IN  ENGLAND 

It  is  easy  to  see  in  what  way  this  essay  might  be  expected  to 
appeal  to  the  interests  of  American  readers.  In  the  preceding 
paper  Irving  himself  hints  at  more  than  one  such  reason.  But 
the  essay  proved  to  be  the  one  which,  probably  as  much  as  any 
other,  brought  him  favor  with  the  English  themselves.  William 
Godwin,  a  critic  and  author  of  the  day,  wrote  to  James  Ogilvie, 
a  young  Scotch  friend  of  Irving,  of  Part  Two  of  The  Sketch  Book: 
"Everywhere  I  find  in  it  the  marks  of  a  mind  of  the  utmost 
elegance  and  refinement,  a  thing  as  you  know  that  I  was  not  ex- 
actiy  prepared  to  look  for  in  an  American.  .  .  .  Each  of  the  essays 
is  entitled  to  its  appropriate  praise,  and  the  whole  is  such  as  I 
scarcely  know  an  Englishman  that  could  have  written.  The 
author  powerfully  conciliates  to  himself  our  kindness  and  affec- 
tion. But  the  essay  on  *  Rural  Life  in  England  *  is  incomparably 
the  best.  It  is,  I  believe,  all  true;  and  one  wonders,  while  read- 
ing, that  nobody  ever  said  this  before.  There  is  wonderful 
sweetness  in  it. " 

In  October,  1820,  in  reply  to  an  inquiry  of  Lady  Lyttleton 
through  Ambassador  Rush  in  London,  as  to  the  real  authorship  of 
The  Sketch  Book,  Irving  wrote  from  Paris:  "As  to  the  article 
on  'Rural  Life  in  England,'  which  appears  to  have  pleased  her 
ladyship,  it  may  give  it  some  additional  interest  in  her  eyes  to 
know  that  though  the  result  of  general  impressions  received  in 
various  recursions  about  the  country,  yet  it  was  sketched  in 


yGoogk 


544  NOTES 

the  vicinity  of  Hagley  just  after  I  had  been  rambling  about  its 
grounds,  and  whilst  its  beautiful  scenery,  with  that  of  the  neigh- 
borhood, was  fresh  in  my  recollection." 

(Hagley  in  Worcestershire  was  the  seat  of  Lord  Lyttleton, 
where  the  old  customs  were  kept  up,  as  related  by  Geoffr^ 
Crayon  in  his  "Christmas  Eve"  and  Christmas  Dinner.")  L, 
and  L.,  i,  366. 

112,  I.  The  Flower  and  The  Leaf.  This  piece  is  probably 
not  Chaucer's.  Since  Irving  wrote,  scholars  have  studied  Chau- 
cer and  his  times  much  more  thoroughly  than  before.  Similarly 
a  few  errors  in  "A  Royal  Poet"  and  in  "Stratford"  are  due  to 
inaccuracy  of  knowledge  in  his  day. 

THE  BROKEN  HEART 

When  first  published,  this  story  was  "undoubtedly  the  general 
favorite.  The  particulars  had  been  given  to  Mr.  Irving  by  a 
young  Liverpool  friend,  Mr.  Andrew  Hamilton,  long  since  dead, 
who  had  himself  seen  the  heroine,  the  daughter  of  Curran,  the 
celebrated  Irish  barrister,  *at  a  masquerade,'  the  scene  in 
which  she  is  introduced  by  the  author.       L.  and  L.,  i,  318-19. 

n8,  I.  Young  E.  Robert  Emmet,  bom  in  Dublin  in  1778, 
and  executed  for  treason  in  1803. 

THE  ART  OF  BOOK-MAKING 

See  /«/.,  p.  14,  for  note  on  the  theme  of  this  essay. 

Satire  on  the  "making  of  books"  is  very  old.  A  sentence 
often  quoted  is  in  Ecdesiastes  xii,  12. 

"All  the  makers  of  dictionaries,  all  compilers  .  .  .  we  may 
term  honest  plagiarists.  Call  them  if  you  please  bookmakers^ 
not  authors,  range  them  rather  among  secondrhand  dealers  than 
plagiarists."  Voltaire,  "Plagiarism,"  in  A  Philosophical 
Dictionary, 

125,  I.  Pure  Englishy  undefiled*  Spensv,  Faerie  Queene^ 
Book  /L,  Canto  2. 

*  Dan  Chaucer,  well  of  English  undefyled 
On  fame's  eternal  beadroU  worthie  to  be  fyled." 
Bible  reference:    Pure  religion  and  undefiled,  James  i,  27. 

126,  I.  Line  upon  line,  precept  upon  precept.  Here  a  little 
and  there  a  little.    Bible  reference,  Isaian  xxviii,  10. 

2.    "^^tches'  cauldron.    Macbeth,  iv,  i. 

127, 1.  Ponderous  history  revives  in  the  shape  of  a  romance* 
Walter  Scott's  romances  may  have  been  in  Irving's  mind.  Com* 
pare  Ivanhoe. 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


NOTES  545 

xa^y  I.  Paradise  of  Daintie  Devices.  A  collection  of  songs 
published  in  1576.    The  work  of  various  minor  poets. 

2.  Sir  Philip  Sidney  (i  554-1 586).  The  ideal  gentleman 
and  courtier  of  the  reign  of  Elizabeth.  He  was  the  author  of 
the  earliest  English  prose  romance,  Arcadia, 

130,  I.  Primrose  Hill  and  Regent's  Park.  Popular  pleasure 
groimds  in  London.  The  Regent's  Park  was  comparatively 
new  in  Irving's  day. 

2.  Babblmg  about  green  fields.  That  is,  talking  pastoral 
or  shepherd  verse.  Suggested  bv  the  famous  phrase  in  Henry  V, 
ii,  2,    "a*  babbled  of  green  fields." 

131,  I.  Beaumont  and  Fletcher.  Two  dramatists  of  the 
time  of  Shakespeare,  who  worked  much  together. 

2.  Castor  and  PoUuz.  Twin  gods  of  Greece  and  Rome 
worshipped  as  saviours  in  time  of  need. 

3.  Qarlequin.  The  conventional  character  in  pantomime, 
taken  over  from  the  Italian  comedy  of  the  Middle  Ages.  In 
the  l^endary  plot,  which  was  preserved  in  the  more  modem 
Christmas  pantomime.  Harlequin  and  Columbine  are  lover? 
favored  by  the  fairies  in  spite  of  their  persecutors,  Clown  and 
Pantaloon.  Harlequin  has  come  to  be  a  general  name  foi 
Clown, 

4.  Patroclus.  In  the  Iliad,  the  friend  of  Achilles,  slain  by 
Hector. 

5.  Chopped  bald  shot.  Second  part  of  Henry  IV,  iii,  2 
FalstafiE  says,  when  he  is  making  up  his  regiment,  "O,  give  mf 
always  a  little,  lean,  old,  chapped,  bald  shot." 

132,  I.  This  learned  Theban.  Lear,  iii,  4.  ^  Irving  seems  to 
have  Deen  fond  of  this  phrase.  He  had  used  it  in  the  History, 
Book  I,  in  reference  to  the  "renowned  Dr.  Darwin."  Tht 
ancient  city  of  Thebes  was  the  chief  center  of  learning  and 
culture  in  Egypt. 

A  ROYAL    POET 

za4y  I.    Charles  the  Second.    Kin^  of  England,  1 660-1 685. 

2.  Sir  Peter  Lely.  A  Dutch  portrait  painter.  He  was  court 
painter  for  Charles;  famous  for  a  series  of  "Beauties"  of  the 
period. 

3.  Surrey.  Henry  Howard,  Earl  of  Surrey,  who,  with  Sir 
Thomas  Wyatt,  introduced  the  sonnet  and  blank  verse  into 
England. 

4.  James  the  First  of  Scotland.  Bom  at  Dunfermline,  1394; 
died  1437. 

235,  I.    Henry  IV.    King  of  England,  1399-1413. 

3S 


yGoogk 


546  NOTES 

137,  I.  Tasso,  Ferrara.  Torquato  Tasso,  Italian  poet, 
1544-95.  He  was  at  times  so  dangerously  insane  that  it  was 
necessary  to  confine  him  in  an  asylum.  During  lucid  intervals 
of  sanity  he  wrote  some  of  his  best  work. 

2.  Kmg's  Quair.  The  quire,  four  sheets  of  parchment  or 
paper  folded  to  form  eight  leaves,  was  a  common  umt  of  mediaeval 
manuscripts.  Hence  it  came  to  mean  any  collection  of  such 
leaves,  or  a  book. 

139,  I.  Consolations  of  Philosophy.  The  author,  Boethius, 
475(?)-524,  A.D.,  was  a  Roman  statesman  and  philosopher.  The 
Consolations,  his  most  famous  work,  was  translated  into  English 
by  King  Alfred  and  by  Chaucer. 

2.  Chaucer.  English  poet,  1 344-1400,  the  Father  of  English 
poetry.    The  Canterbury  Tales  are  his  most  famous  work. 

140,  I.  Lustihood.  An  old  form,  frequently  used  by  Irving, 
but  changed  in  some  places  in  later  editions  to  "lustiness." 

142,  I.  May.  May-time  has  always  been  a  favorite  theme 
with  English  poets.  See  Chaucer,  legend  of  Good  Women^ 
Prologue,  11.  29  flf. 

143,  I.  Chaucer's  Knight's  Tale.  Palamon  and  Arcite. 
This  is  a  very  old  story.  Chaucer  took  it  from  Boccaccio's  Teseide. 
Fletcher  used  it  in  the  drama  of  The  Two  Noble  Kinsmen, 

146,  I.  Windsor  Castle.  The  chief  residence  of  English 
sovereigns,  twenty-one  miles  southwest  of  London  on  the 
Thames. 

151,  I.  Christ's  Kirk  of  the  Green.  This  is  not  certainly 
a  work  of  James. 

152,  I.  Vauduse.  On  his  first  trip  to  Europe,  Irving  was 
eager  to  visit  Vaucluse,  the  one-time  home  of  Petrarch,  the 
Italian  poet  of  the  fourteenth  century,  and  Avienon,  where  Laura, 
to  whom  Petrarch  addressed  his  sonnets,  died.  "After  staying 
two  days  at  Nismes  I  set  off  for  Avignon,  full  of  enthusiasm  at 
the  thoughts  of  visiting  the  tomb  of  Laura,  and  of  wandering 
among  the  wild  retreats  and  romantic  solitudes  of  Vaucluse. 
X.  arid  L.,  i,  48.  But  his  enthusiasm  y^as  to  suffer  disappoint- 
ment. During  the  Revolution,  the  church  of  the  Cordeliers  and 
the  tomb  had  been  destroyed,  and  the  journey  to  Vaucluse  was 
made  impracticable  by  the  activity  of  the  French  spies.  It  is 
probably,  therefore,  one  of  his  dreams  that  he  here  makes  a  part 
of  the  real  travels  of  Geoffrey  Crayon. 

2.    Loretto.    Also  Loreto,  a  famous  shrine  in  Loreto,  Italy. 

THE  COUNTRY  CHURCH 

With  the  picture  of  the  folk  leaving  the  church,  here  given. 

Digitized  by  VjOOQ  IC 


NOTES  547 

it  would  be  well  to  compare  that  drawn  by  Geoi^e  Eliot  in  Silas 
Marneft  ch.  xvi. 

154,  I.  To  see  the  hounds  throw  o£f.  To  see  the  start  of 
the  hunt. 

157,  I.  Lord  Mayor's  Day.  November  9,  when  the  Lord 
Mayor  assumes  office.  In  the  city  of  London  the  Lord  Mayor 
takes  precedence  even  of  the  royal  princes.  The  procession  on 
Lord  Mayor's  Day  is  the  occasion  of  lavish  expenditure,  formerly 
of  considerably  more  interest  to  Londoners  than  now.  See 
also  in  ** Little  Britain." 

160,  I.  Excellent  food  for  the  poor.  Compare  the  satire 
on  this  theme  in  Dickens's  Oliver  Twist,  ch.  ii. 

2.  Rapt  out  of  sight  in  a  whirlwind.  Reference  to  Elijah 
in  2.  Kings,  ii,  i. 

THE  WIDOW  AND  HER  SON 

z6i,  I.  Bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky.  From  The  Temple^ 
by  George  Herbert,  a  religious  poet  of  the  seventeenth 
century. 

164,  I.  The  well-fed  priest.  Irving's  pictures  of  the  clergy- 
men in  these  papers  should  be  compared  with  each  other,  and 
with  those  in  Chaucer's  Prologue,  and  in  The  Deserted  Village, 
The  letter  to  Jesse  Merwin,  referred  to  under  "Sleepy  Hollow," 
contains  a  different  picture. 

165,  I.  Don't  take  it  so  sorely  to  heart.  For  a  similar  picture 
and  simple  pathos  see  Dickens's  Bleak  House,  end  of  Ch. 
viii. 

167,  I.  Press-gang.  A  squad  of  men  commissioned  to  seize 
any  able-bodied  man,  especially  a  seaman,  and  compel  him  to 
serve  on  board  a  man-of-war.  During  the  period  from  1802- 
18 1 5  the  British  government  made  extensive  use  of  the  "im- 
pressment." American  seamen  were  seized,  a  circumstance 
which  helped  to  bring  on  the  War  of  18 12.  The  memory  of  th« 
press-gang  would  be  fresh  in  both  England  and  America  at  the 
time  this  was  written. 

269,  I.    Lonely  and  in  prison.    Compare  Matthew  xxv,  36. 

A  SUNDAY  IN  LONDON 

This  little  fragment  is  of  interest  as  a  contrast  to  the  two 
papers  which  precede  it.  The  sentiment  of  the  last  paragraph 
IS  perhaps  commonplace  now,  but  it  was  not  in  1820.  The  moral 
aovantages  of  parks  had  not  become  so  evident. 


yGoogk 


548 


yGoogk 


NOTES  549 

THE  boar's  head  TAVERN 

Compare  with  this  sketch  "The  Bermudas,  A  Shakespearean 
Research,"  in   WolferVs  Roost,  the  Knickerbocker  Miscellanies. 

References  to  Falstaff  and  his  friends  are  so  frequent  in  Irv- 
ing's  letters  as  to  prove  that  the  subject  of  this  essay  had  always 
been  a  favorite  with  him.  Several  letters  of  1818  refer  to  a 
picture  by  Leslie  showing  Anne  Page  and  Master  Slender,  with 
Falstaff  and  Shallow  in  the  background,  in  which  Irving  took 
much  interest.     See  note  under  "  Stratford.  '* 

177,  I.  Old  Boar's  Head  Tavern.  A  statue  of  King  William 
IV  (1830-31)  now  stands  on  the  site  of  this  famous  tavern. 

2.  Dame  Quickly.  The  Hostess  of  the  Boar's  Head,  in 
Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,  Henry  /Fand  V, 

178,  I.  Cock  Lane.  A  supposed  ghost  appearance  took 
place  in  Cock  Lane,  London,  in  1762.  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson 
was  one  of  the  investigators  of  the  fraud,  the  perpetrators  of 
which  were  punished. 

2.  Little  Britain.    See  essay,  p.  349. 

3.  Old  Jewry.  A  street  near  Mercer's  Hall,  where  the  Jews 
were  settled  before  the  persecution  in  1291. 

4.  Giants  of  Guildhall.    See  note  under  "Little  Britain." 

5.  Jack  Cade.    The  leader  of  the  Kentish  Rebellion  in  1450. 

6.  Eastcheap.  Cheap  is  from  an  old  English  word  meaning 
Market. 

179,  I.  London  Stone.  A  relic  now  embedded  in  the  wall 
of  St.  Swithin's  church  in  London.  It  is  believed  to  be  a  frag- 
ment of  the  old  central  Roman  milestone,  from  which  all  dis- 
tances were  measured. 

2.  The  Monument.  A  column  in  Fish  Street,  erected  by 
the  famous  builder.  Wren,  to  commemorate  the  Great  Fire  of 
1666,  which  broke  out  in  Pudding  Lane. 

180,  I.  Pistol.  Auncient  (Ensign)  Pistol,  the  blusterer  who 
marries  Dame  Quickly. 

181,  I.  Billingsgate.  The  district  of  the  fishmarkets  below 
London  Bridge.  The  present  meaning  of  the  word,  "abusive 
language, "  has  its  origin  in  the  coarse  language  proverbial  among 
the  fishwives. 

182,  I.  Cockney.  A  rather  contemptuous  term  for  a  person 
native  of  the  old  City  of  London,  bom  within  the  sound  of  the 
bells  of  the  church  of  St.  Mary  le  Bow.  It  is  probably  from  an 
old  word  for  the  egg  of  a  common  fowl,  afterward  applied  to  a 
petted,  sjjoiled  child,  hence  an  effeminate  townsman.  Certain 
peculiarities  of  pronunciation  mark  the  Cockney. 

187,  I.    Scriblerius.    The  reference  is  to  Martinus   Scrib- 


yGoogk 


550  NOTES 

leruSt  a  satire  on  affectation  in  learning,  written  by  John  Arbuth* 
not  in  1 712.  The  hero  had  read  everything,  but  had  neitlier 
taste  nor  judgment. 

188,  I.    San-greaL    The  holy  Grail. 

2.  The  valiant  Bardolph.  See  the  speech  of  the  Boy  in 
Henry  V,  ii,  i. 

191,  I.  Portland  vase.  A  very  famous  urn,  probably  of 
the  first  century,  B.C.  Given  by  me  Duke  erf  Portland  to  the 
British  Museum. 


THE  MUTABILITY  OF  LITERATURE 

193,  I.  Westminster  Abbey  and  School.  This  famous  school 
was  established  by  Henry  VIII  in  15^0,  and  re-established  by 
Elizabeth  in  1560.  It  was  reorganized  in  1868  as  one  of  the  g^eat 
public  schools.  The  Westminster  Play,  a  Latin  comedy  given 
by  the  scholars,  is  famous. 

1939  I.    Doomsday  book.    This  is  one  of  the  joldest,  and 

firobably  by  far  the  most  valuable,  of  English  historical  records. 
t  was  prepared  under  the  direction  of  William  the  Conqueror 
in  1086. 

1959  I.    Conversable  little  tome.    Disposed  to  talk. 

197^  I.  Well  stricken  in  years.  An  old  phrase.  Compare 
Luke  1,  7.  Notice  how  Irving  suits  his  language  to  the  antique 
atmosphere  of  the  library. 

The  names  which  follow  are  those  of  famous  churchmen  and 
historians  of  the  twelfth  and  thirteenth  centuries.  Wynkyn  de 
Worde  was  the  second  great  En|[lish  printer,  the  successor  of 
Caxton  in  the  early  part  of  the  sixteenth  century. 

302,  I.  Groan  with  rank  and  excessive  vegetation.  Com- 
pare in  Milton's  "  Comus, "  lines  720-731. 

303,  I.  Checks  on  population  spoken  of  by  economists. 
In  1 8 17  Robert  Malthus  published  the  final  edition  of  his  Essay 
on  Population,  in  which  he  discusses  the  forces — ^war,  famine, 
etc. —  which  tend  to  check  the  growth  of  population.  The  boc^ 
had  created  much  discussion. 

305,  I.  Faithful  portrayer  of  Nature.  Compare  Hamlet,  iii,  2, 
11.  20ff. 

RURAL  FUNERALS 

In  midsummer  of  1819  Irving  sent  to  America  the  essays  for 
Part  Four  of  The  Sketch  Book.  Among  these  was  "John  Bull. " 
Two  weeks  later  he  sent  this  on  "Rural  Funerals"  to  take  thd 


yGoogk 


NOTES  551 

place  of  the  "John  Bull,"  which  was  published  later.  A  letter 
written  by  Mrs.  Hoffman,  the  mother  of  Matilda  Hoffman^ 
indicates  tiiat  part  of  the  essay  was  a  memory. 

31 1,  I.  Rise  again  in  glory.  Biblical  and  in  Church  rituals. 
See  Corinthians  xv,  43. 

214,  I.    Laertes.    May  violets  spring.    Hamlet^  v,  i. 

215,  I.  Dirge  of  Jephfha.  Dirge  of  Jephtha's  Daughter 
by  Herrick  (1591-1674). 

2.    Shakespeare.    Fidde.    Cymheline,  iv,  2. 

216,  I.  Jeremy  Taylor.  One  of  the  best-loved  of  English 
divines;  seventeenth  century. 

218,  I.  Whitsuntide.  The  church  festival,  fifty  days  after 
Easter.  In  early  Christian  times  this  season  was  ranked  with 
Christmas  and  Easter  as  a  time  of  merriment. 


THE  INN  KITCHEN 

For  other  descriptions  of  inns,  see  Christmas  sketches,  and 
"The  Stout  Gentleman,"  in  Bracebridge  Hall.  Compare  other 
inns,  in  Silas  Mamer,  Pickwick  Papers,  The  Deserted  ViUage, 
David  Copperfield,  chapter  ii. 

227,  I.  Ecume  de  mer.  Foam  of  the  sea.  The  same  as 
German  meerschaum. 

The  sketch  serves  simply  as  an  imaginative  introduction  to 
"The  Spectre  Bridegroom. "  The  character  is  Geoffrey  Crayon. 
Irving  visited  the  Netherlands  during  his  first  trip  to  Europe 
in  1804-06.  He  may  here  have  drawn  from  life,  as  he  so  fre- 
quently did. 

THE  SPECTRE  BRIDEGROOM 

Perhaps  the  introduction  of  this  German  subject  may  be 
accotmted  for  by  the  fact  that,  during  the  summer  of  181 8, 
Irving  had  taken  up  vigorously  the  study  of  German.  In  spirit 
and  manner  this  tale  is,  of  all  the  Sketches,  the  closest  of  kin  to 
the  earlier  History  of  New  York.  There  is  in  it  the  same  daring 
challenge  to  our  credulity,  the  same  bold  bearding  of  respectable 
old  ghosts  and  titles  in  their  very  lairs,  without  the  saving  realism 
in  setting  and  characterization  that  is  found  in  "  Rip  Van  Winkle  " 
and  "Sleepy  Hollow,"  and  in  a  few  passages  in  the  History. 
Perhaps  Irving's  greater  degree  of  familiarity  with  the  material 
of  his  two  great  stories  accounts  for  the  difference  pointed  out. 

230, 1.  Heldenbuch.  A  fifteenth  century  collection  of  popu- 
lar epic  poems,  concerned  with  the  heroic  legends  of  Germany. 


yGoogk 


552  NOTES 

2.  Minnelieders.  .The  Minnesfinger,  that  is,  the  love  poets 
of  mediaeval  Germany'. 

23 1 »  I.  Wasting  their  sweetness.  See  the  famaiar  line  in 
Gray's  El^y. 

2.  Poor  relations.  Lamb's  Essay  on  this  subject  should  be 
read. 

233,  I.    Rhein-wein  and  Feme-wein.    Native  and  old  wines. 
2.    Heidelburg  tun.    A  great  wine  vat  built  in  the  castle  of 

Heidelberg  in  175 1. 

234,  I.    Saus  and  braus.    Riot  and  reveky. 

241,  I.  Hockheimer.  The  town  of  Hochheim  in  Germany 
is  famous  for  its  wine  trade.    English  Hock  is  Rhine  wine. 

242,  I.  Leonora.  Lenore.  A  popular  German  ballad  of 
the  eighteenth  century,  in  which  a  goblin  horseman  carries  off 
the  heroine. 


WESTmNSTBR  ABBEY 

This  essay  is  the  product  of  a  mood  very  characteristic  of  the 
author.  It  is  a  mood  of  solemn  reverie  through  which  the  beauty 
of  the  old  Abbey  drifts  like  the  beams  of  mellow  autumn  sun- 
shine. 

250,  I.  Melancholy  days.  Compare  the  phrase  in  Bryant's 
"Death  of  the  Flowers." 

2.  From  the  inner  court  That  is,  from  the  southwest, 
where  the  Westminster  School  is  situated.  The  usual  entrance 
to  the  Abbey  is  from  the  North.  See  "The  Mutability  of  Liter- 
ature. " 

253,  I.  Vanity  of  human  ambition.  Compare  many  lines 
in  Gray's  Elegy, 

258,  I.  flights  of  the  Bath.  This  order  was  founded  by 
George  I  in  1725,  and  was  wrongly  supposed  to  be  a  revival  of 
a  very  old  order. 

2.  Gothic.  This  style  of  architecture  is  characterized  by 
the  pointed  arch  and  elaborate  decoration,  the  style  of  the 
churches  of  Northern  and  Central  Europe  arising  during  the 
Middle  Ages. 

260,  I.     Oppressor  with  the  oppressed.    See  Job  iii,  18,  19. 

2.  Elizabedi  and  Mary.  Later  historians  give  a  rather 
different  notion  of  the  comparative  virtues  of  these  two  aueens. 

262.  I.  Edward  the  Confessor.  King  1043-1066.  He  se- 
cured a  reputation  for  sanctity  rather  than  for  kingliness.  He 
is  regarded  as  the  founder  of  Westminster  Abbw",  though  there 
Was  a  chiu-ch  on  this  location  much  earlier.    The  chiuch  was 


yGoogk 


1  SHRrKE  OF  THE  COKFEtSOil 

2  TOMB  OF  QUEEN  ELIZABETH/ 
8  TOMB  OF  QUEEN  MARY 

4  TOMBS  OF  KINGS  A  QUEEtM 


ffljERUSALElJ  ABBOT'S        It     |  I      ?  *  ^ 

IcmawberI     OIKWGHALL  11. W*    " 


GROUND  PLAN  OF  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 

553 


Digitized  by 


Googk 


554  NOTES 

called  the  West  Minster  to  distinguish  it  from  St.  Paid's  m 
London. 

2.  Gothic  age.  A  rude  age.  This  was  the  sense  first  at- 
tached to  the  word. 

Students  will  find  excellent  accounts  of  the  Abbey,  with  many 
illustrations,  in  Westminster  Abbey,  by  Francis  Bond,  H.  Frowde, 
publisher,  1909.  Westminster  Abbey  by  Charles  Hiatt,  in 
Bell's  Cathedral  Series  is  compact  and  useful.  For  the  famous 
people  buried  in  the  Abbey,  see  The  Roll-Call  of  Westminster 
Abbey,  by  E.  T.  Bradley,  Smith,  Elder,  and  Co.,  1902. 

CHRISTMAS 

370,  I.  Sherris  sack  of  Falstaff.  The  reference  is  to  2 
Henry  IV,  iv,  3,  where  Falstaff  discoiu^es  of  "sherris."  The 
term  was  applied  to  a  kind  of  dry  {sec  meaning  dry)  wine  origi- 
nally imported  from  Xeres,  Spain,  whence  sherry. 

272 , 1 .  Waits.  Bands  of  men  and  boys  paradmg  the  streets  of 
villages  on  the  nights  preceding  Christmas,  singing  carols  and 
expecting  gifts  at  the  nouses.  Originally  the  Wait  may  have 
been  a  watchman  required  to  soimd  on  some  instrument  at 
stated  times  during  the  night.  In  old  French,  the  word  means 
a  guard  or  sentinel. 

2.  Telling  the  night  watches.    Milton's  Comus,  i,  347. 

3.  Ever  'gainst  that  season  comes.    Hamlet,  i,  i. 

273,  I.  Stranger  and  sojourner.  A  frequent  phrase  in  some 
books  of  the  Old  Testament.    See  Leviticus  xxv,  23. 

THE  STAGE  COACH 

Like  the  inns,  the  stage  coach  and  the  coachmen  have  been 
favorite  themes  with  English  writers.  Irving  was  in  England 
when  coaching  was  at  the  height  of  its  glory,  just  before  the 
advent  of  the  railway.  For  other  descriptions,  see  David  Copper^ 
field,  ch.  V,  and  xix;  Pickwick,  ch.  xxiii,  and  xxvii. 

Read  "Going  Down  with  Victory"  in  De  Quincey's  English 
Mailcoach, 

279,  I.  Square  it  among.  Provincial  English,  meaning  t^ 
strut  or  swagger. 

CHRISTMAS  EVE 

288,  I.    The  little  dogs,  and  alL    Lear,  Hi,  6. 
290,  I.    Oxonian.    An  Oxford  man,  from  the  Latin  name  for 
Oxford,  Oxonia, 


yGoogk 


NOTES  555 

291,  I.  Overwhelming  fireplace.  This  seems  to  be  an 
obsolete  use  of  the  word,  in  its  meaning  of  overhanging, 

293,  I.  Master  Simon.  He  figures  prominently  in  the  later 
Bracebridge  Hall, 

CHRISTMAS    DAY 

306,  I.  Izaac  Walton.  1 593-1 683.  A  London  shop-keeper 
until  the  civil  wars.  His  Complete  Angler  is  the  most  famous 
of  books  on  fishing.     See  "The  Angler.'* 

308,  I.  Black-letter.  The  kind  of  type  used  in  the  earliest 
printed  books;  thus:  Bncfcnt  Cbristmiw. 

309,  I.  Fathers  of  the  Church.  A  title  of  honor  given  to 
the  early  writers  and  teachers  of  the  Church.  Theophilus  and 
others  named  in  a  following  paragraph  are  so  called. 

311,  I.  A  cloud  more.  See  Hebrews  xii,  i,  "a  cloud  of 
witnesses. " 

312,  I.  Prynne  and  the  Round  Heads.  Prynne  was  one  of 
the  most  prominent  figures  of  the  Commonwealth  period,  per- 
secuted by  both  parties. 

314,  I.  Duke  Humphry.  To  dine  with  Duke  Humphrey 
meant  to  go  without  dinner.  The  phrase  is  explained  as  origi- 
nally applied  to  those  promenaders  in  the  old  "Walk"  in  St. 
Paul's  who  remained  there  without  going  to  dinner,  presumably 
because  they  lacked  the  money.  A  popular  notion  connected 
a  statue  of  the  "Good  Duke  Humphrey  of  Gloucester, "  who  was 
famous  for  his  hospitality,  with  this  aisle  of  the  church,  though 
it  was  really  never  set  up  there. 

2.  Squire  Ketch.  More  frequently  "Jack  Ketch."  This 
seems  to  have  been  the  name  of  a  hangman  of  the  seventeenth 
century,  and  it  came  afterward  to  be  a  synonym  for  hangman, 

316,  I.  Public  discontent.  The  movement  for  popular 
liberty  was  just  beginning  in  England,  at  the  time  these  essays 
were  written,  and  Irving  has  several  i)assing  references  to  the 
condition.  Periods  of  business  depression  followed  the  close  of 
the  Napoleonic  wars,  which  aided  in  fermenting  the  popular 
discontent. 

THE  CHRISTMAS  DINNER 

320,  I.  Belshazzar's  parade  of  the  vessels.  See  Daniel  y, 
63 .  In  1 8 1 7  and  1 8 1 8  Washington  Allston  and  Irving  exchange<J 
several  letters  in  which  reference  is  made  to  a  painting  AUstoo 
was  working  on,  entitled  "Bdshazzar."     Irving's  references  to* 


yGoogk 


556  NOTES 

it  show  that  the  conception  had  strongly  impressed  him.  In 
this  way  we  may  discover  how  the  materials  for  the  essays  were 
lying  in  the  author's  mind,  needing  only  to  be  written  out. 

321,1.  Holbein  and  Diirer.  German  engravers  and  painters 
of  the  sixteenth  century.  Holbein  spent  the  greater  part  of  the 
time  from  152  7-1 537  in  England,  and  painted  many  i>ortraits  of 
Englishmen.     His  "Family  of  Sir  Thomas  More"  is  famous. 

323,1.  The  Boar's  Head.  There  is  a  local  legend  of  Queen's 
College,  Oxford,  to  the  effect  that,  "Some  five  hundred  years  ago 
a  student  of  the  college  wandering  near  Shotover  Hill  in  deep 
study  of  Aristotle  was  attacked  by  a  wild  boar.  Having  no 
other  means  of  defence,  he  shoved  his  book  down  the  animal's 
throat,  exclaiming,  Grcecum  est!  The  sage  choked  the  savage, 
and  his  head  was  brought  home  in  triumph  by  the  student." 
Walsh,  Curiosities  of  Popular  Customs^  p.  13^. 

33 X,  I.  Out  of  Joe  Miller.  A  stale  joke.  Joe  Miller's 
Jests  appeared  first  in  1739.  The  book  was  by  John  Mottley. 
The  real  Joseph  Miller  was  said  never  to  have  made  a  joke  in  his 
Hfe. 

332,  I.    Fairies  about Falstaff.  See  Merry  Wives^  v.  Scenes /^,$. 

335,  I.  Ancient  Christmas,  etc.  In  Jonson's  Masque  of 
Christmas f  referred  to  in  Irving's  note,  "Old  Christmas"  enters 
with  a  retinue  including  Misrule,  Carol,  Mincepie,  Gambol, 
Post  and  Pair,  New  Years  Gift,  Mumming,  Wassel,  Offering, 
Baby-cake. 

In  The  Book  of  Days  will  be  fotmd  a  specimen  of  a  Christmas 
Mumming  Drama  of  South  Wales. 

In  the  Life  and  Letters^  vol.  ii,  p.  220,  is  given  a  letter  from 
Mr.  Irving,  in  which  he  describes  a  visit  to  Barlborough  ^all, 
where  he  saw  all  the  old  Christmas  customs  he  had  described  in 
The  Sketch  Book. 

LONDON  ANTIQUES 

This  essay  is  a  record  of  a  bit  of  exploration  made  during  three 
weeks  si>ent  in  London  in  the  midsummer  of  181 7.  In  a  letter 
to  his  friend  Brevoort,  of  August  28,  1817,  he  says:^  "I  was  in 
London  for  about  three  weeks,  when  the  town  was  quite  deserted. 
I  fotmd,  however,  sufficient  objects  of  curiosity  and  interest  to 
keep  me  in  a  worry;  and  amused  myself  by  exploring  various 
parts  of  the  city,  which  in  the  dirt  and  gloom  of  winter  would  be 
almost  inaccessible. " 

It  is  probable  that  at  this  time  he  had  rooms  in  Bartholomew's 
Close,  Little  Britain,  and  that  he  is  really  the  original  of  the 
''odd-looking  old  gentleman"  of  the  followmg  sketch. 


yGoogk 


NOTES  557 

34Z»  I.  Chapel  of  the  Knights  Templars.  The  student  will 
find  some  interesting  material  in  The  Temple  Church,  a  little 
book  by  T.  Henry  Baylis,  published  in  1893.  The  "Rotmd 
Church,"  the  characteristic  building  of  the  Templars,  was  built 
in  1 185.  About  1240  the  Choir  was  added.  The  Temple 
includes  the  extensive  buildings  arotmd  the  Church,  which,  since 
1346,  have  been  occupied  by  the  "doctors  and  students  of  the 
law."  The  student  will  recall  the  part  the  Templars  play  in 
Ivanhoe, 

346,  I.  Charter  House.  The  original  Carthusian  monastery 
was  established  here  in  1371.  The  school  has,  since  Irving  s 
time,  been  moved  to  Godalming  in  Surrey.  Its  place  is  occuj^ied 
by  The  Merchant  Taylor's  School,  another  very  old  institution. 

LITTLE  BRITAIN 

349,  I.  Dukes  of  Brittany.  The  district  in  the  north  of 
France,  which  in  very  early  times  received  colonists  from  across 
the  Channel  and  was  called  Little  Britain,  came  into  the  hands 
of  a  son  of  Henry  II  in  the  twelfth  century. 

352,  I.  Shrove  Tuesday.  The  day  preceding  Lent,  anciently 
a  day  for  confession  and  absolution,  shriving.  Pancakes  and 
Shrove  Tuesday  are  inextricably  intermingled  in  popular  lore. 
The  tossing  of  the  pancake  is  one  of  the  interesting  customs  of 
Westminster  School. 

2.  Lions  in  the  Tower.  Animals  presented  to  the  king  were 
formerly  kept  in  the  Tower  of  London. 

3.  Giants.  These  are  two  large  effigies,  which  are  intimately 
connected  with  city  tradition.  They  used  to  form  a  featiu^e  of 
the  Lord  Mayor's  procession  and  of  other  popular  shows.  The 
present  images  were  made  in  1708  to  replace  others  destroyed 
m  the  Great  Fire  of  1666.  According  to  an  old  legend,  they  are 
images  of  two  survivors  of  a  race  of  wicked  giants,  who,  after 
their  brothers  were  slain  by  Brute  and  his  companions,  were 
brought  to  London  and  either  chained  or  made  to  serve  as 
porters  at  the  gate  of  the  royal  palace.  After  their  death  the 
images  were  set  up.    There  are  several  other  similar  accounts. 

Similar  images,  it  may  be  noted,  were  formerly  kept  in  other 
cities,  notably  -^twerp  and  Douai. 

353,  I.  Mother  Shipton  in  the  sixteenth  and  Robert  Nixon  in 
the  seventeenth  centiuy  were  popular  "prophets. " 

35^,  I.  Radical  meetings,  etc.  For  other  references  to  the 
poUtical  disturbances  of  the  time  see  *' John  Bull. " 

2.  Bloody  scenes  at  Manchester.  On  August  16,  1819,  in 
St.  Peter's  Fields,  near  Manchester,  the  military,  in  dispersini^ 

Digitized  by  VjOOQ  IC 


558  NOTES 

a  crowd  of  artisans  gathered  to  listen  to  speeches  advocating 
universal  suffrage  and  other  reforms,  killed  and  wounded  a  num- 
ber. Thomas  Carlyle  referred  ironically  to  this  event  as  the 
battle  of  Peterloo. 

3.  Plot  in  Cato  Street  After  the  accession  of  George  IV, 
when  hopes  of  a  reform  policy  seemed  lost,  a  plot  to  murder  the 
cabinet  while  at  dinner  was  discovered.  The  plotters  met  in  a 
loft  in  Cato  Street. 

355,  I.  Whittington  and  his  cat  Richard  Whittington 
(1358-1423)  was  not  three  but  four  times  Lord  Mayor.  The 
story  of  the  cat  has  been  explained  as  the  outcome  of  a  popular 
tradition  of  the  great  merchant  s  success  by  way  of  the  word 
acat  or  achat,  a  corrupt  French  word  of  the  fourteenth  century, 
meaning  purchase  or  barter, 

359,  I.  Lord  Mayor's  Day.  See  note  on  "The  Country 
Church,"  p.  153. 

361,  I.  Temple  Bar.  Is  one  of  the  several  famous  "bars "  or 
gates  of  the  outer  city  of  London.  Temple  Bar  was  so  named 
from  its  proximity  to  the  Outer  Temple.  It  marked  the  limit 
of  London  in  the  direction  of  Westminster.  The  custom  long 
held  for  the  monarch  to  halt  at  Temple  Bar,  when  on  a  visit  to 
the  city,  and  ask  of  the  Lord  Mayor  permission  to  enter. 

364,  I.  Kean,  the  opera.  When  Irving  was  writing  The 
Sketch  Book  Kean,  the  noted  Shakespearean  actor,  was  playing 
in  London,  and  the  author's  letters  frequently  refer  to  him,  as 
well  as  to  the  new  operas. 

STRATFORD-ON-AVON 

371,  r.  The  poker  his  sceptre.  The  following  is  from  a  letter 
written  in  1832,  telling  of  a  little  tour  with  Mr.  Van  Buren  (after- 
ward President)  who  had  just  been  appointed  Minister  to 
England: 

"We  next  passed  a  night  and  part  of  the  next  day  at  Strat- 
ford-on-Avon,  visiting  the  house  where  Shakespeare  was  bom 
and  the  church  where  he  lies  buried.  We  were  quartered  at  the 
little  inn  of  the  Red  Horse,  where  I  found  the  same  obliging 
little  landlady  that  kept  it  at  the  time  of  the  visit  recorded  in 
The  Sketch  Book,  You  cannot  imagine  what  a  fuss  the  little 
woman  made  when  she  found  out  who  I  was.  She  showed  me 
the  room  I  had  occupied,  in  which  she  had  hung  up  my  eng^ved 
likeness,  and  she  produced  a  poker  which  was  locked  up  in  the 
archives  of  her  house,  on  which  she  had  caused  to  be  engraved* 
"Geoffrey  Crayon's  Sceptre." 

2.    Take  mine  ease,     i  Henry  IV,  iii,  3. 


yGoogk 


NOTES  559 

381,  I.    Shallow.    The  Justice  in  Merry  Wives  and  2  Henry 

387,  I.  Jaques.    See  As  You  Like  It,  11,  i,  7. 

388,  I.  Under  the  greenwood  tree,  etc.  See  As  You  Like 
It,  ii,  5. 

389,  I.  A  goodly  dwelling,  etc.    2  Henry  IV,  v,  3. 

396,  I.  Gentle  Master  Slender  and  Sweet  Anne  Page.  For 
these  scenes  see  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,  See  note  under 
''Sleepy  Hollow,"  p.  563.  There  is  more  than  a  suggestion  of 
likeness  between  Slender  and  Ichabod  of  "Sleepy  Hollow.'* 

TRAITS  OF  INDIAN  CHARACTER  AND  PHILIP  OF  POKANOKET 

See  Int,  p.  9,  for  information  about  the  publication  of  these 
two  essays. 

One  should  read  some  of  Irving's  paragraphs  of  satire  on  the 
early  treatment  of  the  Indians  in  the  History  of  New  York,  i, 
ch.  V.  The  character  of  the  Indian  as  Irving  seems  to  conceive 
him  may  be  compared  with  that  given  him  by  Cooper. 

The  story  of  Philip  has  been  told  in  several  histories  of  the 
time,  to  which  the  reader  may  refer.  See  American  History 
Told  by  Contemporaries,  Hart,  vol.  i,  pp.  458-461. 

Old  South  Leaflets,  No.  88.     This  contains  another  contem- 

S^rary  accotmt.  The  story  in  Cotton  Mather,  Magnolia  Christi, 
k.  7,  ch.  6,  is  in  interestmg  contrast  to  Irving's  tale. 
On  the  subject  of  Indian  Traits,  the  reader  should  remember 
that  Irving  wrote  at  a  time  when  he  had  probably  been  somewhat 
affected  by  a  certain  enthusiasm  for  the  habits  and  character  of 
primitive  tribes,  which  was  a  part  of  the  romantic  enthusiasm 
for  human  freedom  which  characterized  the  literature  of  the 
period.  The  modem  scientific  interest  in  the  subject,  with  its 
more  careful  studies,  had  not  yet  come.  But  it  is  not  improbable 
that  the  attitude  of  Irving  is  not  far  from  truth  and  justice.  A 
recent  work  by  Dr.  Charles  A.  Eastman  on  The  Soul  of  The 
Indian,  Houghton,  Mififlin,  191 1,  may  be  referred  to  with  profit. 

JOHN  BULL 

See  Int,,  p.  14,  for  suggestion  as  to  the  character  of  this  essay*. 

The  development  of  the  conception  of  John  Bull  embodied  m 
this  caricature  seems  to  b^in  with  Arbuthnot's  The  History  of 
John  BuU,  or  Law  is  A  Bottomless  Pit,  published  in  1712.  John 
Bull,  or  The  Englishman's  Fireside,  a  comedy,  was  played  by 
Coleman,  the  younger  in  1805.  In  181 2  Paulding  sent  to  Irving 
a  copy  of  his  Piveritng  History  of  John  BuU  and  His  Brother  Jona^ 

Digitized  by  VjOOQ  IC 


560  NOTES 

than.  The  theme  was  a  familiar  one  for  both  writers  and  artists 
of  the  time;  indeed  our  present  conception  of  the  character 
belongs  to  this  period.  The  entire  picture  should  be  compared 
with  those  of  the  country  gentlemen  of  living's  other  papers. 
The  essay  contains  frequent  references  to  the  social  and  economic 
diflficulties  of  the  time,  and  to  the  growing  radicalism. 

449,  I.  The  obstreperous  conduct  of  one  of  his  sons.  Per- 
haps "Orator  Hunt,"  who  was  a  popular  agitator  of  the  time, 
always  managing  to  keep  himself  out  of  trouble. 

450,  I.  Son  Tom.  Tommy  Atkins,  the  nickname  of  the 
British  soldier.  After  the  close  of  the  Napoleonic  wars  in  1815, 
many  officers  were  home  on  half -pay. 

452,  I.  Pockets  . . .  empty.  From  1797  to  1 821 'Bank of  Eng- 
land notes  were  not  redeemable  in  gold. 

453,  I.    Remain  quietly  at  home.   Has  he  followed  this  advice? 

THE  PRIDE  OF  THE  VH-LAGE 

456,  I.    Earth  to  earth,  etc.    Church  ritual  for  burial. 
2.    Rachel.    See  Matthew  ii,  18. 

457,  I.    Prettiest  low-bom  lass,  etc.     Twelfth  Night,  iv,  4. 

458,  I.  May-day.  Read  Tennyson's  "Queen  of  the  May." 
Compare  note  on  "A  Royal  Poet,"  p.  546. 

THE  ANGLER 

When  sending  the  manuscript  of  this  essay  to  America,  Irving 
wrote  to  his  brother:  "It  is  a  sketch  drawn  almost  entirdy  from 
life;  and  therefore,  if  it  has  no  other  merit,  it  has  that  of  truth 
and  nature." 

467,  I.    Izaak  Walton.    See  note  imder  "Christmas  Day,"  p. 

555. 

2 .    Don  Quixote.  The  hero  of  the  Spanish  romance  of  that  title. 

468,  I.    La  Mancha.     Don  Quixote,  Part  i,  book  3,  ch.  p. 
2.    Highlands  of  the  Hudson.    This  adventure  occurred  m 

the  sunmier  of  18 10,  when  Irving  with  several  friends  was  at 
the  house  of  Captain  Phillips,  another  of  a  group  formerly  called 
by  Irving  "The  Lads  of  KUkennv. "  It  was  his  friend  Brevoort 
who  was  so  elaborately  equipped.  The  rest  of  the  ^say  is  per- 
haps for  the  most  part  a  recollection  of  a  little  tour  into  Derby- 
shire with  his  brother  Peter  in  1816. 

THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW 

Late  in  December,  18 19,  when  sending  to  his  brother  Ebenezer 
tie  sixth  part  of  The  Sketch  Book,  Irving  writes:    "There  is  a 


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NOTES  561 

Knickerbocker  which  may  please  from  its  representation  of 
American  scenes.  It  is  a  random  thing,  suggested  by  recollec- 
tions of  scenes  and  stories  about  Tarrytown.  The  story  is  a 
mere  whimsical  band  to  connect  descriptions  of  scenery,  customs, 
manners,  etc. " 

"The  outline  of  this  story,"  says  his  biographer,  Pierre  M. 
Irving,  "had  been  sketched  more  than  a  year  before  at  Birming- 
ham, after  a  conversation  with  his  brother-in-law,  Van  Wart, 
who  had  been  dwelling  upon  some  recollections  of  his  early  years 
at  Tarrytown,  and  had  touched  upon  a  waggish  fiction  of  one 
Brom  Bones,  a  wild  blade,  who  professed  to  fear  nothing,  and 
boasted  of  his  having  once  met  the  devil  on  a  return  from  a 
nocturnal  frolic,  and  run  a  race  with  him  for  a  bowl  of  milk 
pimch.  The  imagination  of  the  author  suddenly  kindled  over 
the  recital,  and  in  a  few  hours  he  had  scribbled  off  the  framework 
of  his  renowned  story,  and  was  reading  it  to  his  sister  and  her 
husband.  He  then  threw  it  by  until  he  went  up  to  London,  where 
it  was  expanded  into  the  present  legend."     L.  and  L.,  i,  347. 

The  following  passage  occurs  in  the  sketch  of  Sleepy  Hollow, 
in  Wolferi*s  Roost,  The  author  is  telling  of  the  researches  of 
Diedrich  Knickerbocker  in  Sleepy  Hollow. 

"The  worthy  Diedrich  pursued  his  researches  with  character- 
istic devotion;  entering  familiarly  into  the  various  cottages,  and 
fossiping  with  the  simple  folk,  in  the  style  of  their  own  simplicity. 
^  confess  my  heart  yearned  with  admiration  to  see  so  great  a  man, 
in  his  eager  quest  aSter  knowledge  humbly  demeaning  himself  to 
curry  favor  with  the  humblest;  sitting  patiently  on  a  three- 
legged  stool,  patting  the  children,  and  taking  a  purring  grimalkin 
on  his  lap,  while  he  conciliated  the  good-will  of  the  old  Dutch 
housewife,  and  drew  from  her  long  ghost  stories,  sptm  out  to  the 
humming  accompaniment  of  her  wheel. 

"  His  greatest  treasure  of  historic  lore,  however,  was  discovered 
in  an  old  goblin-looking  mill,  situated  among  rocks  and  water- 
falls, with  clanking  wheels,  and  rushing  streams,  and  all  kinds 
of  tmcojith  noises.  A  horseshoe,  nailed  to  the  door  to  keep  off 
witches  and  evil  spirits,  showed  that  this  mill  was  subject  to 
awful  visitations.  As  we  approached  it,  an  old  negro  thrust 
his  head,  all  dabbled  with  flour,  out  of  a  hole  above  the  water- 
wheel,  and  grinned,  and  rolled  his  eyes,  and  looked  like  the  very 
hobgoblin  of  the  place.  The  illustrious  Diedrich  fixed  upon  him, 
at  once,  as  the  very  one  to  give  him  that  invaluable  kind  of 
information  never  to  be  acquired  from  books.  He  beckoned  him 
from  his  nest,  sat  with  him  by  the  hour  on  a  broken  millstone, 
by  the  side  of  the  waterfall,  heedless  of  the  noise  of  the  water 
and  the  clatter  of  the  mill;  and  I  verily  believe  it  was  to  his 

36 


yGoogk 


$62 


NOTES 


conference  with  this  African  sage,  and  the  precious  revelations 
of  the  good  dame  of  the  spinning-wheel,  that  we  are  indebted  for 
the  surprising  though  true  history  of  Ichabod  Crane  and  the  head- 
less horseman,  which  has  since  astonished  and  edified  the  world. " 

484,  I.  Ichabod  Crane.  Irving  s|>ent  two  months  in  1809, 
after  the  death  of  Matilda  Hoffman,  in  the  country  at  Kinder- 
hook.  In  1 85 1,  he  received  a  letter  from  Jesse  Merwin,  whom  he 
had  met  during  that  time.  This  letter  was  indorsed  by  Irving 
as  "From  Jesse  Merwin,  the  original  of  Ichabod  Crane."  In 
his  reply  to  it,  he  says,  among  other  things: 

"Your  letter  was  indeed  most  welcome — calling  up  as  it  did, 
the  recollection  of  pleasant  scenes  and  pleasant  days  passed 
together  in  times  long  since  at  Judge  Van  Ness's,  at  lUnder- 
hook.  ... 

"You  tell  me  the  old  schoolhouse  is  torn  down,  and  a  new  one 
built  in  its  place.  I  am  sorry  for  it.  I  should  like  to  have  seen 
the  old  schoolhouse  once  more,  where,  after  my  morning's  liter- 
ary task  was  over,  I  used  to  come  and  wait  for  5rou  occasionally 
until  school  was  dismissed,  and  you  used  to  promise  to  keepbaci: 
the  punishment  of  some  little,  tough,  broad-bottomed  Dutch 
boy  until  I  should  come,  for  my  amusement — but  never  kept 
your  promise.  I  don't  think  I  should  look  with  a  friendly  eye 
on  the  new  schoolhouse,  however  nice  it  might  be.  ... " 

2.  Connecticut.  One  should  read  in  the  nistory  of  New  York 
the  account  of  the  ways  of  the  Connecticut  pioneer,  and  his 
over-riding  of  the  Dutchman. 

485,  I.  Spare  the  rod.  Quoted  from  a  duU  poem  of  the 
seventeenth  centiuy,  Butler's  Hudihras^  II,  i,  1.  843.  See  also 
Proverbs  xiii,  24. 

487. 1.  The  lion  bold.  •  •  •  the  lamb  did  hold.  Phrases  sug- 
gest^ by  the  famous  New  England  Primer^  which,  under  the 
guise  of  such  doggerel  rhjrmes,  doled  out  to  the  youth  of  its  day 
the  rudiments  of  Teaming. 

488,  I.  A  man  of  some  importance.  Compare  Goldsmith's 
picture  of  the  schoolmaster  in  The  Deserted  Village, 

2 .    Cotton  Mather's  New  England  ¥^tchcraft    This  refers  to  a 

§art  of  the  great  work  of  this  famous  old  New  England  preacher, 
iagnalia  Christi  Americana^  a  Church  History  of  New  England. 
The  last  two  books  contain  the  information  Irving  refers  to. 

490,  I.  In  linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out.  Milton's 
**L'All^o,"l.  lAo. 

This  IS  one  of  those  unfortunate  lines  of  poetry,  which,  beauti- 
ful in  their  original  settings,  have  been  tumea  to  all  sorts  of 
ludicrous  uses.  It  happens  that  in  a  letter  received  by  Irving 
at  Birmingham  during  the  visit  when  he  sketched  this  storyf 


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NOTES  563 

Washington  Allston,  in  speaking  of  Master  Slender  in  Leslie's 
new  picture,  writes,  "Slender,  also,  is  very  happy;  he  is  a  good 
paroay  on  Milton's  'linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out.'  "  See 
note  under  "Stratford-on-Avon,"  p.  559. 

498,  I.  Rantipole  hero.  A  word  of  uncertain  derivation^ 
perhaps  from  rant,  to  behave  boisterously,  and  poll,  head.  It  is 
dialect  in  North  of  England  for  see-saw. 

499,  I.  Admiration.  The  word  is  used  in  its  Latin  sense^ 
wonder, 

501,  I.  Rough  riders.  Sleepy  Hollow  and  its  vicinity,  says 
Irving  in  the  Chronicle  of  Wotfert's  Roost,  was  debatable  land 
during  the  Revolution.  He  tells  further  of  two  bands,  the  Skin- 
ners and  the  Cowboys,  the  former  of  which  was  American,  the 
latter,  British,  and  of  how  there  was  organized  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, with  Jacob  Van  Tassel,  then  the  owner  of  The  Roost, 
"a  confederacy  with  certain  of  the  bold,  hard-riding  lads  of 
Tarrytown,  Petticoat  Lane,  and  Sleepy  Hollow,  who  formed  a 
kind  of  Holy  Brotherhood,  scouring  the  country  to  clear  it  of 
Skinner  and  Cowboy,  and  all  other  border  vermin.  The  Roost 
was  one  of  their  rallying  points.  Did  a  band  of  marauders  from 
Manhattan  island  come  sweeping  through  the  neighbourhood  and 
driving  off  cattle,  the  stout  Jacob  and  his  compeers  were  soon 
clattering  at  their  heels,  and  fortunate  did  the  rogues  esteem 
themselves  if  they  could  get  but  a  part  of  their  booty  across  the 
lines  or  escape  themselves  without  a  rough  handling.  Should 
the  mosstroopers  succeed  in  passing  with  their  cavalgada,  with 
thundering  tramp  and  dusty  whirlwind,  across  Kingsbridge,  the 
Holy  Brotherhood  of  the  Roost  would  rein  up  at  that  perilous 
pass,^  and,  wheeling  about,  would  indemnify  themselves  by 
foraging  the  refugee  region  of  Morrisania. " 

507,  I.  The  Dutch  tea-table.  Compare  a  similar  passage 
in  the  History  of  New  York,  iii,  ch.  iii.  Irving's  cottage, 
Sunnyside,  had  been  owned  by  a  family  of  Van  Tassels. 

511,  I.  Major  Andr4.  The  story  should  be  familiar  to  every 
boy  and  girl. 

5x4,  I.    The  very  witching  time  of  night    Hamlet,  iii,  2. 

523,  I.  Ten  Pound  Court.  A  court  authorized  to  try  cases 
not  involving  property  of  more  than  ten  poimds  in  value. 

l'envoy 

527,  I.  L'Envoy.  The  Sending.  The  author's  formal  send- 
ing forth  of  his  book. 

2.  La  Belle  Dame  Sans  Mercie.  Chaucer.  This  poem  is 
probably  not  the  work  of  Chaucer. 


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QUESTIONS  AND  TOPICS  FOR  STUDY 

The  following  questions  may  be  regarded  as  supplementary  to 
the  references  ana  suggestions  given  m  the  Notes.  They  should 
be  helpful  by  way  of  directing  to  a  mastery  of  the  plan  and 
structure  of  the  essays  and  a  correspondingly  clearer  grasp  of 
the  content. 

In  order  to  overcome  the  difficulty  arising  from  the  variety 
c£  subjects  among  the  essays,  the  teacher  should  follow  closely 
the  groupings  suggested  in  the  Introduction  (pp.  13-14)  and 
also  the  cross  references  and  comparisons  called  for  in  the  Study 
Topics  and  the  Notes.  Such  comparative  study  is  necessary 
if  the  pupil  is  to  get  a  unified  notion  of  Irving's  work. 

THE  author's  account  OF  HIMSELF 

1.  What  dreams  of  the  author's  boyhood  were  realized  in 

later  years? 

2.  Do  the  reasons  he  gives  for  desiring  to  visit  Europe  still 

hold  good  for  an  American? 

3.  How  does  the  author  introduce  the  title  of  his  volume? 

THE  VOYAGE 

1.  Suppose  Irving  going  from  New  York  to  Liverpool  to-day; 

how  do  you  think  his  experience  on  board  ship  would 
differ  from  that  which  he  describes  in  this  essay? 

2.  How  is  the  account  of  the  voyage  introduced:    by  sen- 

tences about  this  particular  voyage  or  about  voyages  ia 
general? 

3.  What  suggestions  of  subjects  of  the  following  essays  do 

you  find  here? 

ROSCOB 

1.  What  do  you  think  most  strongly  attracted  the  author  to 

Mr.  Roscoe  ? 

2.  Describe  the  method  which  Irving  uses  to  introduce  his 

subject. 

3.  Is  any  moral  drawn  in  the  sketch? 

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TOPICS  FOR  STUDY  565 


THE  WIFE 

1.  What  do  you  think  most  interested  Irving  in  this  subject? 

2.  How  would  such  a  situation  be  handled  to-day  in  a  short 

story? 

RIP  VAN  WINKLE 

1.  How  does  the  author  prepare  the  reader  for  his  story? 

(Read  the  quotation  from  Irving  in  the  Introduction  ^.15] 
about  his  method  of  work.) 

2.  Where  (with  what  paragraph)  does  the  action  of  the  story 

begin? 

3.  What  is  the  effect  for  you  of  the  description  of  the  "fairy 

mountains"  in  the  first  paragraph?  Do  you  think  that 
on  that  "fine  autumnal  day"  Rip  was  interested  in  the 
scene? 

4.  Joseph  Jefferson,  on  the  stage,  gave  Rip  a  somewhat 

poetical  nature.  Does  Irving's  portrait  give  any  reason 
for  this  interpretation? 

5.  How  does  Irving  bridge  the  gap  between  Rip's  falling 

asleep  and  his  awakenmg? 

6.  On  Rip's  return  to  the  village,  how  are  the  details  of  his 

experience  made  to  contrast  with  those  of  his  former 
popularity? 

ENGLISH  WRITERS  ON  AMERICA 

1.  What  t5rpe  of  writing  found  in  the  other  sketches  is  lack- 

ing in  this  essay? 

2.  What  is  Irving's  suggestion  as  to  the  way  to  avoid  the 

difficulty  he  points  out? 

RURAL  LIFE 

1.  What  advantages  for  a  nation  does  Irving  find  in  a  country 

life  enjoyed  bv  all  classes? 

2.  How  are  the  first  two  paragraphs  used  to  introduce  the 

subject? 

THE  BROKEN  HEART 

What  likeness  in  plan  do  you  find  between  this  sketch  and 
"The  Wife"? 


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566  TOPICS  FOR  STUDY 


THE  ART  OF  BOOK-MAKING 


1.  Describe  the  method  used  in  the  first  paragraph  to  intro- 

duce the  subject. 

2.  What  is  the  story  running  throug:h  the  sketch? 

3.  What  is  the  effect  of  the  repetition  of  the  word  familiar? 


A  ROYAL  POET 

1.  How  does  the  author  prepare  the  way  for  his  theme? 

2.  In  the  account  of  the  origin  of  the  "  King's  Quair/'  do  you 

find  anything  that  remmds  you  of  Irving's  own  way  of 
beginning  one  of  his  sketches? 

3.  What  is  the  narrative  that  binds  this  whole  sketch  together? 

4.  What  other  stories  are  suggested  in  the  sketch? 

THE  COUNTRY  CHURCH 

1.  What  is  the  part  assumed  by  the  author  in  this  sketch? 

2.  In  what  other  of  the  essays  have  you  found  the  same 

character  assumed? 

THE  WIDOW  AND  HER  SON 

With  what  others  of  the  essays  can  you  class  this  in  subject  ana 
plan  of  composition? 

THE  boar's  head  TAVERN 

1.  What  quality  do  you  notice  in  the  introduction  of  this 

sketch  that  makes  it  different  from  those  that  precede  it? 

2.  What  is  the  object  of  the  author's  ridicule  in  the  essay? 

3.  Trace  the  author's  route  on  the  map  (p.  548). 

4.  What  is  the  author's  attitude  toward  old  so-called  relics 

and  traditions?     In  what  other  essays  do  you  find  him 
assuming  this  mood? 

MUTABILITY  OF  LITERATURE 

1.  What  mood  is  suggested  by  the  author's  introductory 

paragraph? 

2.  What  means  are  used  to  unify  all  these  observations  about 

old  and  forgotten  books? 


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TOPICS  FOR  STUDY  567 

RURAL  FUNERALS 

What  use  of  narrative  is  made  in  this  essay? 

THE  SPECTRE  BRIDEGROOM 

1.  What  purpose  does  the  sketch  of  "The  Inn  Kitchen** 

serve  here? 

2.  How  is  the  way  prepared  for  the  story? 

3.  Where  does  the  a4:tt(m  of  the  story  really  begin? 

4.  What  resemblances  do  vou  notice,  in  theme  and  plan. 

between  this  story  and    Rip  Van  Winkle"? 

WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 

1.  Trace  the  author's  path  through  the  Abbey  on  the  Plan 

(p.  553). 

2.  How  does  the  author  impress  upon  the  reader  the  atmos* 

phere  of  the  Abbey  as  he  saw  it? 

3.  In  what  mood  does  the  author  leave  the  building? 

4.  What  had  Irving  seen  in  Westminster  Abbey? 

CHRISTMAS 

I.    Where  did  Irving  get  his  material  for  these  Christmas 


2.  Taking  the  entire  group  together,  what  do  you  find  to  have 

been  the  author's  plan  of  composition? 

3.  What  figures  might  vou  take  from  the  Christmas  company 

at  Bracebridge  Hall,  as  central  characters  for  some  Christ- 
mas stories?  (See  letter  in  Introduction,  p.  15,  about  the 
plan  of  Irving's  Bracebridge  Hall,) 

LONDON  ANTIQUES  AND  LITTLE  BRITAIN 

1.  Who  is  "/**  in  these  two  papers?    See  Introduction  and 

Notes. 

2.  There  is  some  satire  in  "Little  Britain."    At  what  is  it 

directed? 

STRATFORD-ON-AVON 

I.    What  similarity  do  you  find  between  the  moods  of  the 
author  in  this  sketch  and  in  "The  Boar's  Head  Tavern"? 


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568  TOPICS  FOR  STUDY 

2.  What  had  Irving  expected  to  find  in  Stratford  and  its 

neighborhood?  Was  his  search  successful?  What  evi- 
dence in  the  essay? 

3.  What  equipment  had  the  author  for  an  appreciative  visit 

to  Stratford? 

4.  What  inpression  of  Shakespeare,  as  man  and  poet,  do  you 

get  from  this  essay? 

5.  Does  Irving  write  as  a  student  or  as  a  lover  of  Shakespeare? 

(For  the  following  five  sketches,  see  the  Notes  for  suggestions 
as  to  study  and  questions.) 

THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW 

1.  In  what  ways  is  the  introduction  of  this  tale  like  that  of 

"Rip  Van  Winkle"?  Point  out  differences  between  this 
introduction  and  that  of  "The  Spectre  Brid^oom." 

2.  What  are  the  different  phrases  with  which  Irvmg  con- 

trives to  place  before  tne  reader  the  character  of  Sleepy 
Hollow? 

3.  Where  in  the  tale  does  the  actual  action  of  the  story  begin? 

4.  What  descriptions  of  characters  and  places  have  been  given 

up  to  this  point  as  preparatory  to  the  story? 

5.  In  this  tale  Irving  approaches  somewhat  more  nearly 

than  in  other  sketches  the  form  of  a  short-story  plot. 
What  would  be  such  a  plot,  with  Katrina  as  the  central 
figure?    With  Brom  Bones? 


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